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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419786">Summer Girls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebi_pers/pseuds/ebi_pers'>ebi_pers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Please Leave All Drama On The Stage [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, F/M, rini - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:21:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,432</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419786</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebi_pers/pseuds/ebi_pers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After all the drama surrounding the musical, Nini Salazar-Roberts is looking forward to a quiet, relaxing summer with Ricky. Those plans are put in jeopardy, though, when she attends a teaching conference and finds she's not the only East High faculty member in attendance... (Sequel to "The Show Must Go On"/Part 2 of the "Please Leave All Drama On The Stage" series).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ricky Bowen/Nini Salazar-Roberts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Please Leave All Drama On The Stage [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Falling From The Sky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's finally here! The mini-sequel to "The Show Must Go On." I've had this in development since about midway through Show Must Go On, so I'm very excited to finally be able to share this with you. Thank you all so, so much for the incredible support on the last story. It really motivated me to churn this one out. If you haven't already read my previous fic, you probably should read that first, as this story will make frequent references to events that took place previously. </p><p>A few things about this story: you'll notice right away that it's in first-person. I wanted Nini to be able to narrate more directly in this story, and I wanted her voice to carry through more. Also, as you'll soon see, we're making a pretty significant leap forward in time from the last story. I'll fill in some of the gaps from that time, but I would also love to hear your interpretations for what took place in-between then and now - it might even give me some inspiration! </p><p>What this story will include: FRIENDSHIP! (Especially between Nini and Ashlyn). Romance and pining between Ricky and Nini because I'm a sucker for stuff like that. DRAMA. Some adult language. </p><p>This will be much shorter than Show Must Go On. I would love to hear your thoughts on this piece, especially since I'm experimenting with first-person narration and (if all goes well) will be using this storytelling style for the full-length sequel that follows this. Title and chapter titles are borrowed from one of my favorite HAIM songs. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’ve been a morning person all my life. My moms used to get up at five to do yoga in the living room, and by the time I was nine I was begging to join. I never once complained about being awake at such an ungodly hour, and truth be told, I liked to watch the sunrise from our living room. But for once, I find myself cursing the alarm clock as I reach past Ricky to shut it off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a familiar routine by now: Ricky sleeping through my alarm and me reaching past him to hit the switch. Normally I would roll out of bed, straighten out the sheets, and start making coffee. But it’s different today. In a few hours, I’ll be on a plane to LA for the next three days. So right now, all I want to do is settle back against my pillow and lie in bed with my boyfriend for the rest of forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been months since we made it official. Months since Ricky first spent the night. I’m finally starting to get used to having him around, even if it still startles me to find someone else in bed beside me sometimes. And this will be the first time one of us is going away without the other. Three days isn’t much, I know. And it’s not like we’re married, settled down, and living together. But still. For three days at least, I won’t be able to hop in the car and take a ten minute drive to visit him. He won’t be able to stop by after work, let himself in, and play his guitar while I sit at the keyboard and try to put a tune to the lyrics I’ve been working on. It’s the idea that I can’t see him that makes me want to rethink this trip altogether. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against my better judgment, I lie back down and in a second, Ricky’s arm is encircling me again. He lets out a sigh of contentment, but a moment later I can feel him tense up. I can almost picture his eyes snapping open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nini,” he whispers urgently, shaking me a little, and I groan in response. “Nini, it’s past eight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” I sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your flight’s at noon,” he reminds me, sitting up. I turn over to face him. The sunlight filtering through the blinds paints gold stripes across his face and brings out the highlights in his curly, unruly hair. It’s really not making me want to get up any sooner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m canceling my flight,” I tell him, squinting to see him clearer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He arches a brow, a lopsided smirk spreading slowly across his lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God </span>
  </em>
  <span>that smirk makes me stupid. “Okay,” he says. He’s challenging me. And he knows he’s going to win because the airfare isn’t refundable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I don’t say anything, he lets out a little chuckle and takes my hand, slowly pulling me to a sitting position. “C’mon. You gotta finish packing,” he says, glancing across the room to my open suitcase, half-full of unfolded shirts. It’s his fault, really. His and Kourtney’s. I had planned to pack yesterday, but Kourtney had come over in the morning and Ricky had come by in the afternoon so I was a bit distracted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod, rubbing my eyes and bringing the rest of the room into focus. Ricky mentions something about breakfast, and then the mattress dips as he climbs off and pads barefoot out of the room. I hear him banging around in the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and drawers. I don’t even need to tell him where to find the frying pan or where I keep the salt anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stare into the depths of my closet as the smell of coffee starts to fill the house. I’m still not sure what the proper attire for a summer teaching conference is. Jeans and a t-shirt? Business casual? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can hear Kourtney’s voice in my head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no such thing as overdressed. Everyone else is just underdressed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I pack a few blouses and a couple of skirts to appease her, and then throw a pair of jeans in, just in case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I come out into the dining room, Ricky’s humming a Bruno Mars song as he lays out two plates. Sunny side-up eggs for me, scrambled for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re out of soy milk,” he tells me as he puts a mug of coffee on the table, and I like the way he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He still has the apartment above the skate shop with Big Red. But after the first couple of times Big Red almost walked in on us, my place sort of became our go-to when we wanted privacy. I like it better this way. Sometimes, lying in bed at night, I pretend this isn’t my condo. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>ours</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And then I laugh at myself because I’m twenty-four and playing house in my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I check my flight time on my phone. Still on schedule. 12:06 departure. Which means we should be at the airport by 10:30. Which means I don’t have much time to finish packing and getting ready. I wolf down breakfast and take my plate and Ricky’s to the dishwasher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At 9:40, Ricky comes into the bedroom. I’ve just finished cramming the last of my toiletries into my suitcase, praying that it will still fit in an overhead because I don’t want to pay to check a bag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready?” he asks, his arms falling to my waist as he draws me closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I nod, but I’m not. I’m dressed, yes. Comfy for the flight. Leggings and a hoodie I stole from him. Just in case the plane gets chilly, I tell myself. I’ve got my luggage, and my driver’s license, and an empty water bottle that I can refill once I get past security. But I’m not ready to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only three days, I remind myself. And it’s stupid to get this sappy over a few days apart but I can’t help it. I can almost hear Lola lecturing me on separation and individuation. I’m sure Ricky can read my mind, and the look on his face tells me that he’s on the same page. But he just plants a quick kiss on my lips, offers me a reassuring smile, and says, “Okay.” And then he goes to his drawer, pulls out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and changes out of his pajamas.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Ten minutes later, Ricky rolls my suitcase out to his car. He’s parked in a visitor space across the parking lot. He opens the trunk easily, and I’m glad I convinced him to trade in the Xterra - the yellow beast - for a CR-V or we’d lose another half-hour trying to get the tailgate open. The new car suits him much better anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what are you going to do with all your free time away from me?” I ask. I mean it teasingly, but something about Ricky’s expression makes me sort of regret asking in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces a smile, but the noise he makes isn’t quite a laugh. More like a forceful exhale. “Big Red and I have a lot of bro time to catch up on,” he says. “And work will keep me busy. Try not to have too much fun in LA.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I snort. “Oh yeah, you know how much fun hotel convention centers can be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to settle back in my seat, but the car is suddenly a little too warm. I reach over and adjust the A/C controls. Too cold. I adjust it back. I want to take the hoodie off, but at the same time, I don’t, and now the seatbelt feels like it’s constricting me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nervous?” Ricky asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nod, catching my bottom lip between my teeth even though I swore I’d stop doing that. The problem is, I’m not sure what I’m nervous about. Everything, probably. Being away from Ricky. Flying alone for the first time. Spending three days at a hotel in an unfamiliar city, surrounded by people I don’t know. Ashlyn’s also going, but there’s no guarantee we’ll see each other during the day.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricky reaches across and takes my hand in his. His eyes don’t leave the road, but he doesn’t have to look at me to know how anxious I’m becoming the closer we get to the airport. It was easy to shrug it all off when my trip was still days away. But it’s happening now, and every passing second makes that more apparent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s going to be fine,” Ricky promises, his guitar-callused fingers brushing against mine. I don’t know if he means the flight or if he’s talking about us, but either way I know he’s right. It’s a two-hour flight. And in seventy-two hours, I’ll be back and he’ll be here to greet me. There’s barely even a time difference. It’ll barely be any time at all, especially when we agreed to take our relationship slow. But maybe that’s the problem. For months we were patient. Now, we’re finally together and it feels like we’re playing catch-up. Like we’re trying to release all the pent-up feelings we had for each other the whole time. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>It’s only a twenty minute drive to the airport. I try to convince Ricky to just drop me off outside, but I know full-well that it’s pointless. He’s not going to let me leave without giving me a proper goodbye. He parks in the closest lot to the terminal and together, we make our way inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are people everywhere. It’s July after all, and everyone’s traveling for vacations. A family in matching Disney t-shirts and Crocs walks past, Mickey ears on their heads. I can’t tell if they’re super pumped to be going to Disney World, or if they just got back. Ricky smirks when he notices them, and I look away because I know I’ll start laughing if I don’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I print my boarding pass and we walk toward the security line. Ricky squeezes my hand. He’s still rolling my suitcase along, but I take it from him as we stop just short of the TSA agent’s podium. Once I show her my ID and boarding pass, she’ll wave me through to security. Ricky won’t be able to accompany me past this point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have everything?” he asks quietly. It’s a dumb question and we both know it. I went over everything twice before we left the house. But at the same time, I find myself scrambling for something - anything - that I might have forgotten. Something to prolong having to leave him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m good,” I say, pulling his hoodie tighter around me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles. I wish he was coming with me. And then Ricky pulls me into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around me and pressing me close to him. I encircle his waist with my arms and squeeze as hard as I can. He dips his head and presses his lips against mine, and I do all I can to make this kiss linger. When we finally separate, the terminal feels twenty degrees colder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me know when you land?” he asks. His voice is soft and husky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will,” I promise, grabbing hold of my luggage and starting toward the TSA agent before I can talk myself out of it. “Water my plant?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t let you down,” he grins radiantly. “Have fun!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You too!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I walk up to the TSA agent - an older woman with thick glasses and lipstick that’s just a little too red to be flattering - and hand her my boarding pass and my license. “Going away for a while?” she asks, making a note on the pass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just three days,” I say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” She looks at me, then at Ricky, who’s still standing where I left him, and a ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “Have a safe flight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I gather my things and take one last glance at my boyfriend. He forces a smile and waves. I force a smile and wave back, my hands full of travel documents. And then I step around the corner and into the security line, and even though I can’t see him anymore, I’m sure he’s still lingering. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>I have about twenty minutes to kill by the time I reach the gate. I find an open seat near the gate agent’s counter and pull out my book. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Crucible</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Principal Gutierrez gave me a senior English class this year, so I’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m only on page four when I hear my name practically being shouted across the waiting area. At first, it almost doesn’t register. But Nini’s not exactly a common name, so I look up and spot Ashlyn hustling over to me, dragging a teal suitcase behind her. I get up and race over to meet her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, I didn’t think we’d end up on the same flight!” she says, enveloping me in a hug and rocking the both of us side-to-side. Her suitcase clatters to the ground beside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me neither but I’m so glad we did!” I tell her when I pull back. I’m relieved to have a travel buddy. I’ve only ever flown in a plane twice, and my moms were with me both times. The thought of having to be on a flight by myself was more than a little terrifying, so to know Ashlyn will be on the plane with me is perhaps the best news I’ve gotten all day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your boarding group?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“B,” I say. “What’s yours?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile broadens when she shows me her boarding pass. “B!” </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>We’re first in line when they call boarding group B, and we’re lucky enough to get the last two seats side-by-side. They’re in the back of the plane, right in front of the bathrooms, so the location isn’t the greatest and the seats don’t recline, but at least we’re together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flight attendants go through the safety briefing, showing us how to latch and unlatch our seatbelts, where to find the closest exit, what to do in the event of a water landing. They remind us to put our phones in airplane mode. When we were little - way before either of us had ever been on a plane before - Kourtney and I used to say we’d be flight attendants one day. I don’t know where the idea came from, but I think we were drawn by the glamour of traveling the world in those sharp, navy blue uniforms and perfect makeup and stylish scarves worn by all the flight attendants on TV. We used to stand in my living room, our stuffed animals sitting in neat rows on the couch, and practice pointing to the emergency exits. It’s laughable now for a lot of reasons, chief among them being that I hate flying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s just something unsettling about being trapped in a big metal tube at thirty thousand feet in the air, hurtling at six hundred miles-per-hour. It’s the ultimate torture for someone who’s afraid of heights, and I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified </span>
  </em>
  <span>of heights. I can’t even do ferris wheels. Ricky learned that this spring when he took me to the carnival. I was riding high from winning him a teddy bear, and him winning me one, too. So when Ricky suggested the ferris wheel, I didn’t resist. Big mistake. If I squeezed Ricky’s hand any tighter the entire time we were up there, I think I would’ve permanently cut off all circulation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plane pushes back from the gate and my breath hitches. I’m sitting by the window, but the view isn’t great. Salt Lake City Airport isn’t known for its beauty. It’s mostly just dirt and brown, dead grass and other planes parked at gates. The longer we taxi, the more my heart rate goes up. I do my best to hide it, but the white-knuckle grip I have on the armrests gives me away. Ashlyn smiles encouragingly at me and presses a stick of gum into my hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It always helps me calm my nerves,” she says. “Plus, it stops your ears from popping.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn’s the best, which is something I’ve come to see more and more in the months after she helped save our musical by doing all of the sets. I thank her and shove the stick of Wrigley’s spearmint into my mouth. It helps for a moment, but then the plane comes to a stop on the runway and I hear the engines spooling up. My heart drops and I’m suddenly forced against my seat as the plane begins to take off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We angle up and I hazard a glance out the window. All I can see is blue sky and the tarmac getting smaller and smaller beneath us. I chew harder, until the gum stops cushioning the blow and I can feel each bite reverberating painfully throughout my mouth. A baby starts crying somewhere up in front, and I’ve never related more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then suddenly, the plane’s engines go quiet. I bite down hard, missing the wad of gum and instead clamping down on the inside of my cheek. I wince, but the pain distracts me from the sickening feeling of the plane leveling out. Around the cabin, nobody else seems to notice. Or if they do, they don’t seem to mind that it sounds like our engines have stopped altogether.  And then, just as suddenly as they quieted down, the engines resume their reassuring hum. I let out a sigh of relief and settle back against my seat, trying to remind myself that it’s all normal. Thousands of people fly every day without issue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, the ground below is a patchwork of gray, craggy cliffs and the beginnings of mountain peaks. Utah’s beautiful from the ground, but from overhead it all looks so dull and drab. Occasionally, clouds block out my view of the Earth below, but for the most part, I can see everything beneath us. I can even make out some roads. I wonder if Ricky’s driving on one of them. And if so, would he know that it was my plane overhead? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the seatbelt light goes off and the pilot announces that drinks will be served. I turn to Ashlyn, who has a copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gone Girl </span>
  </em>
  <span>open in her lap. She shuts it when she notices me. I feel bad. I hate to interrupt her reading, but I’m also desperately in need of something to distract me from the fact that the only thing keeping us in the air is a pair of propellers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s your summer been?” I ask, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the drone of the engines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good!” Ashlyn smiles. “Really good, actually. I meant to show you pictures of the renaissance fair. The sets we did for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beauty and the Beast</span>
  </em>
  <span>? The other organizers loved them!” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through her camera roll to show me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn’s sets for the musical were incredible. She’d spent hours making sure they were period-correct and detailed, and that was working with whatever budget and equipment we had lying around the school. I’m not surprised to see that the renaissance fair sets are even more gorgeous, considering she wasn’t relegated to canvas and cardboard when making them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ash, these look awesome!” I say, scrolling through. A few of the pictures show Ashlyn in her High Priestess costume, which I’m sure Kourtney would be all over if she saw. She looks almost like a fairy queen, with her red hair fierier than ever and done in a crown braid. Her dress is mint green and decked out with rhinestone jewel accents. A gauzy, turquoise cape and golden crown complete the ensemble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I swipe through a few more of the photos and land on a group shot with a bunch of other renaissance fair actors. Ashlyn is standing in the center, brandishing a hefty sword like a badass. But it’s the person on the far right that catches my eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Big Red</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I blurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh? Oh!” Ashlyn looks sheepish as she takes her phone back from me. “Yeah. That’s Big Red.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know he was a part of the renaissance fair, too,” I say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face turns redder than her hair. “It’s his first year, actually,” she says. I can’t fight the smile that spreads across my face. Ricky and I have been speculating for </span>
  <em>
    <span>months </span>
  </em>
  <span>about the two of them. Ever since they became reacquainted during the musical, they’ve been talking quite a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop!” Ashlyn giggles, blushing harder. “It’s not what you think. Big Red’s our newest squire.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm-hmm,” I tease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And...okay, so maybe we hang out sometimes outside of the fair, too,” she admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mmm-hmm,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” I repeat. I don’t press her any further, though. I’ve been there. Before Ricky and I made it official, it seemed like someone was approaching one of us weekly to ask if we were a thing. It was kind of embarrassing, honestly, to be the talk of the school. If Ashlyn isn’t ready to talk about whatever she’s got going on with Big Red, I won’t push her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, what’ve you been doing with your summer?” Ashlyn changes the subject. “Are you still tutoring?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shake my head. “Honestly? After all the drama this past year, I needed a break, you know? So I took the summer off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s that been?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been great, actually. I don’t have to scramble to be anywhere at a certain time. I can focus on reading and writing and lesson planning. It’s just nice to have so much free time for once.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Must leave plenty of time for you to see Ricky, too,” she nudges me, winking playfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flight attendant comes around and we each order a ginger ale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is Ricky?” Ashlyn asks, taking a sip. “Why isn’t he coming?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Work,” I reply. The fizziness of the soda tickles my throat. “He’s teaching private guitar lessons during the week and three days is a lot of sessions to miss out on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though Ricky works during the week, the relaxed schedule of the summer has been so nice. We have more time for each other. He can stay over without both of us scrambling to try to get out the door and to work on time. We can lay out by the community pool or go for long walks in the park. We bring Halfpipe sometimes, though he doesn’t enjoy walking so much as lying in the grass. Ricky’s even trying to teach me how to ride a skateboard, though admittedly I’m not great at it yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been a slow, lazy summer, and that’s exactly what I wanted,” I finish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve earned it,” Ashlyn agrees. “After everything you’ve been through this year. Here’s to a quiet, drama-free summer.” She raises her plastic cup and I tap mine against hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We leave it at that. For a moment, I want to ask about EJ. For a moment, it looks like she might want to say something, too. But we just sort of smile and forget it. EJ has always been an awkward specter hanging over my friendship with Ashlyn, and we often dance around the subject. I’ve always appreciated how easily she can compartmentalize it and overlook the fact that I’m her cousin’s ex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even though EJ and I are done, even though he betrayed and sabotaged me, and even though I’m so much happier now, I sometimes can’t help but wonder how he’s doing. I know if I ask, Ashlyn will tell me. But she’ll never volunteer the information otherwise. I asked once, when my curiosity got the better of me, and she told me that EJ was doing alright. He was slowly moving on. And he’d been on a mission to make amends with just about everyone, apparently. I always wondered why he never tried to make further amends with me. I suspect Ashlyn knows more about that than she lets on, but I’m too shy to ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pilot announces our final approach into LA just as the flight attendant comes around to collect our empty cups. I clip the tray table back into place. “Hey, did you get your room assignment?” I ask. The conference offered a discounted rate at the hotel but we would have to share with another attendee. Not a big deal, since we’re basically just going to the rooms to sleep, but I’m hoping now that Ashlyn might be my roommate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says. “I’m on the fourth floor. Room 415.” She looks to me hopefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well we aren’t roommates, but we are neighbors,” I tell her. “I’m in 413.” </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>It takes almost twenty minutes from the time we land to the time we get off the plane. I fire off a quick text to Ricky the second they tell us we can take our phones off airplane mode.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just landed! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He replies with a picture. A screenshot of his phone showing my plane’s status on a flight tracking app because of course he would be tracking the plane’s progress. Just in case. It says ARRIVED. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Glad you got there safe!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Once we’re inside the terminal, Ashlyn asks me to watch her bag while she runs to the restroom. It’s then that I spot a familiar figure across from me, scrolling through her phone and dressed in a black t-shirt and camo joggers. I’d recognize the curly top bun anywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gina? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercifully, she hasn’t spotted me. She’s too busy texting whoever or doing whatever it is she’s doing on her phone. I quickly duck behind a pillar next to a Starbucks and hope she won’t notice me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn comes out of the restroom and looks confused until she spots me in my hiding place. She comes over, shaking her hands dry. “Nini, what’re you doing?” she asks. Her tone is amused, but I have a feeling it won’t be once I tell her why I’m hiding behind a pole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” I beg her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look across the waiting area and tell me I’m hallucinating.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She follows my gaze and I can tell the exact moment she spots Gina. “Oh,” she murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is she doing here?” I ask. “You don’t think…?”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn shrugs helplessly. “I’m not sure,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I know. In my heart, I know the answer. This can’t be a coincidence. There’s no other reason for Gina Porter to be in LA at this exact time. The conference was offered to everyone at East High. Why wouldn’t she take the opportunity? I sigh. So much for a drama-free summer. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. LA On My Mind (I Can't Breathe)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter 2, here we go! Thank you all so much for the responses so far. Like I said, I'm still experimenting with the first-person narration so I'd love your thoughts on that. My plan for the full-length sequel is to tell it in first-person from different characters' perspectives (from the points of view of Ricky, Nini, Gina, and EJ) but I would really like to know what you think overall. Happy reading and stay safe, everyone!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Here’s the thing. Gina and I are not enemies. Not anymore, at least. Yes, she sabotaged the musical for her own gain, though the reasons themselves are still a bit murky to me. But she came through for us in the end. Without her robotics team, we wouldn’t have had lighting or sound for the production. We made peace with each other, albeit a shaky one. And for the rest of the school year, we mostly avoided one another. On those few occasions where contact was unavoidable - walking down the hallway, making copies in the faculty lounge - we were pleasant but nothing more. I’ll always be grateful for her help in the end, but let’s be honest. How could we be friends after all that? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you wanna play this?” Ashlyn asks. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Gina, and Gina hasn’t taken her eyes off her phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t want to play this at all. But it’s not like we have much choice. Gina stands between us and the exit. “Maybe we can slip past her while she’s distracted,” I suggest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t help but feel like a child. This is dumb. We’re devising a plan to sneak past her like she’s some mythical beast guarding the gates of hell. What’s the big deal if she spots us anyway? Some awkward small talk and we’d be on our way. But I’d almost rather wait until she’s gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Want me to run interference?” Ashlyn asks. “I honestly don’t mind Gina. I could talk to her and you could slip past.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m chewing my lip again. I wish I hadn’t spit the gum out, even if it lost its flavor twenty minutes into the flight. “No. It’s okay,” I shake my head. Sending Ashlyn to distract Gina would make me feel even more like a child. Time to just bite the bullet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as we’re preparing to leave the safety of the pillar, Gina looks up. Her eyes land directly on Ashlyn and her face lights up when she recognizes her. Even from this distance, I can see her eyes widen further when they land on me, and then she’s speed-walking toward us, dragging a purple suitcase behind her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I consider my options. How much of a coward would I be if I just took off running? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, guys!” Gina says. Her voice is warm. Unnaturally warm. Clearly as forced as her smile is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Ashlyn greets, and there’s genuine sweetness in her tone. “Fancy bumping into you here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina goes in for a hug, leaning over to wrap a tense arm around Ashlyn. She lets out a little puff of breath and rocks on her heels, her dark eyes regarding me. “Hi, Nini,” she says. Her voice is soft and vaguely apologetic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I straighten up and force a smile of my own, but I can feel my cheeks twitch in protest. “Hi, Gina,” I say, trying to keep my voice as even as possible and praying she doesn’t notice the slight tremor in my voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here for the conference?” she surmises, and Ashlyn and I nod in unison. “I’m glad I’m not the only one,” she says with a self-conscious laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We lapse into an awkward silence. I keep my eyes glued to the floor. There’s a scuff on my shoe that I just now notice. Gina rocks back and forth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Ashlyn clears her throat. “Nini and I need to see about getting a cab to the hotel. I guess we’ll see you there?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Gina says. “Actually, I just ordered an Uber. It should be here in a few minutes. Why don’t we split it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Ashlyn asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I want to say no. I want to say we’ll find our way to the hotel, if only to spare myself the awkwardness of riding in a car with Gina for who-knows-how-long while we all stare at the ground and pretend there’s nothing uncomfortable about the situation. But I also know that would be petty. And dumb. And I don’t want to speak for Ashlyn - she’s got no problem with Gina, after all. Besides, I have no reason to say no, right? Gina and I aren’t on bad terms. And splitting an Uber three ways is infinitely cheaper than paying for a cab solo. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Gina says. “We’re all going to the same place, right? May as well.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ash looks over at me and I offer them both a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll Venmo you,” I say. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The LA heat surrounds us the minute we leave the air-conditioned terminal. It’s a dry heat, so it’s not unbearable. I’m surprised by how similar it is to Salt Lake summers. The only real difference is the smog, which hangs in the air like a thick blanket and adds a haziness to everything. Sort of like an Instagram filter in real-life. Cars zip in and out of the drop-off lane, cutting off taxis and shuttle buses. Tourists of all kinds mill about around us. A dark gray Prius draws up to the curb.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The driver leans over into the passenger seat and calls, “Gina?” through the open window. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s me,” Gina declares, then turns to us and jerks her head in the direction of the car. She pops the trunk open and we shove our suitcases inside. Mercifully, she takes shotgun and lets me and Ashlyn have the back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I never realized how big LA is until this moment, squeezed in the back of an Uber and sitting in standstill traffic. You can drive across Salt Lake City in a half hour. Granted, traffic will need to be light and everyone will need to be driving at least the speed limit, but it can be done. It takes longer than that just to reach our hotel from the airport. The driver blasts Spanish music on the stereo, but the ride is otherwise oppressively silent. A pine tree car freshener swings wildly from the rearview mirror every time we change lanes to get around slow-moving traffic. I stare out the window, pretending to be captivated by every skyscraper we pass to hide the fact that the silence makes me uncomfortable. Ashlyn alternates between looking out her window and reading her book (I’ll never understand how she can do that without getting carsick) and Gina keeps her eyes glued to the phone in her hand. I wonder if she’s actually texting someone, or if she’s just trying to look busy. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The Uber driver deposits us outside the Marriott in Downtown LA. We’re right near the Staples Center, which I guess is cool. EJ would be all over something like that, even though he’s a die-hard Jazz fan and would never in a million years root for the Lakers. The hotel is smaller than I pictured. Sleek glass office buildings tower over it up and down the block, making it look like a child lost in a sea of grownups. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn thanks the driver and we roll our suitcases through the sliding glass doors. A blast of cool, conditioned air smacks us in our faces the second we step into the lobby. Everything looks so clean and polished. The floors are gleaming white tile and the walls are paneled with dark wood. It’s all so modern and sterile and charmless. It makes me miss my living room, with its fluffy rug and soft ottoman and abundance of throw pillows. I know Cali is supposed to be a dream, but so far? Color me unimpressed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, ladies,” the friendly-looking guy at the check-in desk says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi! We’re pre-booked for the teachers’ conference,” Gina informs him. “We just need our room keys.” She shows him her confirmation email and he types a few numbers into his computer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great. Thank you, Ms. Porter. You’re gonna be in room 413. Elevator’s over there on the right.” He hands her a keycard and waits expectantly for me to approach, but I can’t quite process anything that’s happening at the moment because he just gave Gina a key to room 413. But room 413 is my room. Which means…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I help you, ma’am?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “Oh. Yeah, hi. I’m also here for the teachers’ conference.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure thing. I’ll just need your confirmation email and your ID.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hesitate. I know what will happen once he sees my booking confirmation. He’s going to give me a keycard for room 413, and I’m going to be trapped with Gina as my roommate for the next three days. I could barely stand the tension on the car ride over here. I think I’ll die if I have to sleep in the same room as her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy at the check-in desk is holding his hand out expectantly, and I have no choice but to pass over my license and pull up the confirmation email on my phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, what a coincidence!” he says. “You’re also in room 413. Your roommate just checked in.” He tilts his head to indicate Gina, who’s standing off to one side waiting for us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I fake a smile. “I know. What a coincidence.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I catch Gina’s demeanor change the second the receptionist points out that we’re rooming together. She’s looking at me like a deer in headlights. I can’t tell if she’s afraid of me or just horrified that she’ll have to be in my presence for an extended period of time, but it sort of makes me feel powerful either way. At the very least, she’s just as uncomfortable as I am about the whole thing. Would it be immature to ask for a room change? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The receptionist hands me my license and the keycard. “There you go, Ms. Roberts. Enjoy your stay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I take them from his hand numbly. I don’t even have the heart to be annoyed that he called me Ms. Roberts and not Ms. Salazar-Roberts like my moms intended. (Seriously. It’s hyphenated. I.e. meant to be read as </span>
  <em>
    <span>one word</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Not that hard!)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn steps up to the counter to check in while I edge toward Gina. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, looks like we’re roomies!” she says. The enthusiasm in her voice is a hundred percent forced, but she does a decent job selling it. The little squeal, the slight bounce. If only she could make the smile reach her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Looks like it,” I reply. Try as I might, I can’t muster the energy to pretend I’m as excited. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go, ladies,” Ashlyn says, brandishing her room key and smiling a bit too hard. So yeah, at least we’re all on the same page. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>I’m the last one in the elevator, so I’m the first one out of it, and I lead the way down the hall to our room. I’m greeted with the familiar rush of cold air the second I push the door open, along with that hotel room smell: the smell of clean linens and sterility. I pause in the doorway to take inventory. Two queen beds, a little lounge chair by the window, a desk, TV, and a four-drawer dresser. I make a beeline for the bed closest to the window without consulting Gina. If she minds, she doesn’t say anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hoist my suitcase onto the lounge chair and unzip it while Gina rummages in one of the pockets of her luggage and pulls out a canister of Lysol wipes. She goes to town on the nearest lightswitch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” I ask. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Disinfecting,” she replies without turning around. She shifts her focus to the faucet handles on the little sink by the minifridge. “Trust me, Nini, you don’t wanna know how dirty a hotel room is. They never disinfect anything.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She finishes up with the sink and starts attacking the TV remote. It’s funny. I never would’ve pegged Gina for a germaphobe. I’m kind of glad, though. If hotels are as filthy as she says, at least one of us came prepared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My luggage shifted in transit, and my clothes are now half-unfolded. All of my toiletries are secure in Ziplock bags - thanks, Ricky - so at least everything is dry. I pull out a blouse and start to refold it, then grab another. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina has finished her cleaning spree and is finally getting around to unpacking. Neither of us speaks, and I try to remain focused on my clothing. Unpack, refold, set aside. Unpack, refold, set aside. Every so often, I hazard a glance over at her side of the room, trying to take inventory of what she brought so I can figure out if I’m under or overdressed. But all of her shirts are rolled into tight, neat little bundles and I can’t tell what any of them look like. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are four drawers,” Gina announces, crossing over to the dresser. “So that’s two for each of us. Do you have a preference?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shake my head. “No preference.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shrugs and opens the top drawer. “Okay, so the top two are mine and the bottom two are yours. Good?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yup.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I finally finish refolding my shirts. By this point, Gina has moved on to the closet, where she’s hanging up a black skirt. So far, so good. I mean, we’ve barely talked but still. I briefly wonder whether this is better or worse than rooming with a total stranger and shoot a text off to Ashlyn to find out how her roommate situation is going. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She seems nice. Kinda odd. She’s from Provo Public Schools. How are you and Gina?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fine? </span>
  </em>
  <span>I text back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like we aren’t talking, but we also aren’t at each other’s throats.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She responds with three crossed-fingers emojis. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Gina finishes hanging up her clothes - I’m relieved to see I won’t be over or underdressed, but dressed just-right - I gather up my Ziplocks of toiletries and start for the bathroom. Just as she grabs her makeup bag and also heads for the bathroom. We reach an impasse at the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. I’m sorry,” Gina laughs a little sheepishly. “Here, you go first.” She steps aside and waves me through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,” I reassure her. “You were here first. You go.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, really!” Gina insists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We both stand in the darkened bathroom doorway like a pair of indecisive idiots. “I really don’t have that much to unpack in there,” I finally say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, me neither,” Gina agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t we both just go?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” she shrugs, but she still stands aside and lets me enter first. I flick the newly-disinfected lightswitch and the bathroom is flooded with yellow light. There’s a sink and vanity to my left with an assortment of tiny shampoos and a cheap hair dryer attached to the wall. A shelf above the toilet is piled high with fluffy white towels and the shower is hidden behind a heavy beige curtain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pull back the curtain and arrange my body wash and my conditioner inside while Gina opens up her makeup bag and removes makeup wipes, a toothbrush, floss, and a miniature tube of toothpaste. I join her on the other side of the sink and start to unpack the rest of my toiletries, accidentally bumping her elbow in the process.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry!” I say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Gina answers breezily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later, she knocks a tube of lip gloss over into the sink. The clattering makes me jump. “Sorry!” she says, instinctively putting a hand on my arm to stabilize me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” I reply, regaining my composure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I finally finish unpacking, I look up into the mirror and there we are. As odd a pair of roommates as there ever was. Gina’s at least two or three inches taller than me. More with her hair pulled into a bun that sits high and curly on the top of her head. I look tiny standing next to her and straighten my posture a little to make the height difference less stark. She finishes arranging her cosmetics and glances up. For a second, we make eye contact in the mirror. She smiles and it reaches her eyes for the first time. I’m not sure what to make of it. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Earthquake Drills</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey everyone! Thank you all so much for the amazing comments, kudos, and support that you've been leaving me so far. I'm so happy that you're enjoying it so far. I'm having a lot of fun writing it and focusing in on the Gina-Ashlyn-Nini dynamic. Please keep letting me know what works and what doesn't. Every comment helps me improve!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear West Coast/Mountain States Teachers’ Alliance Members,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It is our pleasure to welcome you to this year’s conference! Please keep in mind that our first session will begin promptly at 4:30 in the convention center. We will meet in the reception hall. Please dress comfortably and be prepared to participate in some icebreakers to help you get to know your colleagues. Dinner will be served immediately following at 6:00. We look forward to meeting you all in person!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Your Coordinators,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Heather, Linda, and Deanna</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I scan the email quickly. The itinerary was sent to us a week ago, but I guess the organizers want to remind us again just in case. I figure Ricky’s hoodie and my leggings count as dressing comfortably, and evidently Gina doesn’t see a need to change either, so we make our way down to the convention center together in silence. Ashlyn is already there when we arrive, and the three of us form a cluster, surveying the room for any other coworkers. There aren’t any familiar faces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A blonde woman, thin as a rail and dressed in an oversized Boulder Valley School District sweatshirt stands up on a chair and claps her hands together in a rhythm. Instinctively, we all clap the rhythm back. I guess that’s what happens when you get a roomful of teachers together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Attention! Attention, everyone! Can I have your attention please?” she calls, despite the fact that we’re already silent. Her voice is shrill and nasally. She adjusts her thick-framed glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Hi, everybody. I’m Heather Wallace, one of your coordinators!” She holds for a moment and there’s a smattering of applause around the room. She bows with great flourish. “On behalf of myself and my co-coordinators, I want to thank you all so </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>much for being here and sharing in this marvelous experience! To get started, if you haven’t already done so, please make sure to retrieve your nametag from the tables behind me. They are alphabetized. Each name tag has a colored dot on it that represents your small group for our first session. We’ll begin in just a few minutes!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn’s already wearing her nametag: a laminated placard secured with pale pink yarn around her neck. The yarn is already fraying in places. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What color’s your dot?” I ask, hoping that whatever it is, mine will match. I won’t even mind if Gina’s there with us if that’s the case.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Blue,” she says, showing us the dot beside her name. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina and I weave our way through the throng of other attendees and search the tables for our name tags. I find mine and snatch it up quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>NINA SALAZAR-ROBERTS<br/></span>
  <span>English Department, East High School<br/></span>
  <span>Salt Lake City, UT</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a purple dot next to my name. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina hustles over to me as she slips her name tag over her head. “I got purple. What did you get?” she asks. The yarn is tangled in her hair and she slowly frees it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I look down at the placard in my hand. You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t answer, but I hold it up so she can see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says. “I guess we’re in this together, then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yup,” I nod and try to grin, but even without seeing myself, I can tell that it looks more like a grimace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t long before Heather reconvenes us and sends us off to various small conference rooms with our groups for “icebreakers and fun get-to-know-you activities.” Fun fact: I hate icebreakers. Getting to know people is great! Being forced to crowd each other’s physical space or stand up in front of them and share three interesting facts about yourself? Not so much. Especially if, like me, you aren’t interesting enough to come up with three interesting facts. And don’t get me started on trust falls. If they ask me to fall backwards and rely on Gina to catch me, I’ll walk out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The conference room is a little too cold to be comfortable. The tables are pushed up against the walls and the chairs - green upholstered and uncomfortable-looking - are arranged in a large circle on the thick, beige-carpeted floor. I already feel the dread creeping in. Whenever an icebreaker involves a circle, you can bet someone will end up in the middle. And you can bet the person in the middle will have to share some fun facts about themselves or do something insanely embarrassing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I once asked Lola why anybody would ever think icebreakers were a good idea and she said it helps get people warmed up. Something about memory and association. We all learn each other's names and have a good laugh at the same time. But even she was hard-pressed to justify the psychology behind making a roomful of strangers humiliate themselves in front of each other for an hour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I find an empty seat and sit down. Gina takes the one beside me. Heather follows us into the conference room and shuts the door. There are twenty of us here excluding Heather. Eighteen strangers, me, and Gina. Heather claps her hands and lets out a delighted little squeal. “Oh, I’m so glad to have you all here,” she says. “Purple is my favorite color, hence why I’m running the </span>
  <em>
    <span>purple </span>
  </em>
  <span>group.” She pauses. I’m not really sure what reaction she’s waiting for, but it’s clear that our blank expressions aren’t it. She plunges onward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, so first I thought we’d go around and introduce ourselves. Give us the name you prefer to be called, what you teach, and where you’re visiting from. I’ll start! I’m Heather Wallace. I teach food and nutrition at Boulder High School in Boulder, Colorado.” She turns to the frail-looking man to her right and waits expectantly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Me?” he says, sitting up a little straighter. My seat is on the other side of the circle. I’ve never been more relieved to be last at something. I rehearse everything I’m going to say, and how I’m going to say it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi! I’m Nina! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Too perky. Besides, Heather told us to use the name we prefer to go by. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello, I’m Nini</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No. Sounds too rehearsed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What’s up, I’m Nini</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Absolutely not. Way too relaxed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time the introductions weave their way to Gina, I’ve pretty much checked out. I can’t even remember the first guy’s name. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Gina Porter,” my coworker says. It feels like an AA meeting. Or at least what I imagine an AA meeting feels like. I want to respond with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hi, Gina</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I teach math at East High in Salt Lake City.” She turns to me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I look up. All eyes are on me and it’s a little nerve-wracking. “Hi,” I say, clearing my throat because it comes out a little too soft. “I’m, uh, Nini. Salazar-Roberts. I teach English. Also at East High in Salt Lake City.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my gosh!” Heather cries, her eyes wide and delighted. “What a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun </span>
  </em>
  <span>coincidence! I didn’t realize we had a pair of coworkers in the room. How great is that? Our goal is for all of us to come out as friends, but you’ve already got one in the room!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I feel myself shrinking further into my seat and cast a quick glance in Gina’s direction. Her eyes are wide. I’ve never seen a look that screams ‘help me’ quite as loudly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, we’re about to start our next game,” Heather continues, “but we’re going to have to introduce some new rules. Since Gina and... sweetie, what’s your name? Naynay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nini,” I correct her quietly. The tips of my ears feel like they’re on fire. If it wasn’t freezing in this conference room, I’m pretty sure I would melt into a puddle right here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. So our next game is two truths and a lie. But since Gini and Nina already know each other, they won’t be allowed to answer on each other’s turns. Sorry, ladies, but we wouldn’t want any cheating,” Heather says, winking conspiratorially at the two of us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I could tell her that she’s way off-base. That Gina and I barely know each other at all. That really, I don’t have anymore of an advantage than any other person in this room. But that would probably raise a lot of questions I’m not prepared to answer, so I decide to let it be. Mercifully, Gina seems to be on the same page.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, let’s start on the opposite end of the circle this time, shall we?” Heather turns to me with an enormous grin. Seriously, it must be so unnerving to be her student if this is the kind of manic energy she brings into the classroom every day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then I realize that I’m supposed to start. My mind goes blank. Suddenly I’m unable to think of a single truth or lie about myself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit!</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, uh…” I stall. I know it’s obvious, but I don’t care. The trick to two truths and a lie is to make one truth unbelievable and the lie mundane. Except I can’t think of anything unbelievable about me. I’ll have to settle for three mundane things and hope everyone here is a bad guesser. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh. Let’s see. I’ve never left the United States,” I say. “My original career plan was to be a psychologist.” I tick the two truths off on my hand. “And I played Eponine in my high school production of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Les Mis</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You don’t have to know me very well to know which is the lie, but the others don’t know me at all. I turn to look at Gina, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>she knows which one is the lie. I can see it on her face. But she can’t say anything, so I just grin at her and sit back in my seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A heavyset woman with perfect curls raises her hand. I can’t remember her name, but I nod at her. “Is it the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Les Mis</span>
  </em>
  <span> one?” she guesses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, so maybe it was sort of obvious. I nod my head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were Cosette, weren’t you?” she asks sweetly. “You look like a Cosette.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-uh,” an older woman pipes up. I think she said she was a drama teacher somewhere. “She’s a Fantine. Definitely Fantine.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, I don’t know how to respond. It’s quite possibly the most flattering thing any stranger - or group of strangers - has ever said to me and I can’t fight the smile that spreads across my face or the blush that creeps up my cheeks. “No, I was actually just part of the chorus,” I say. I leave out the fact that I was also a Lovely Lady. I don’t really need to rehash that in a roomful of people I don’t know. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turn my attention to Gina, who leans forward in her chair. “Okay, I guess it’s my turn. Let’s see. I graduated college early, so I’m actually younger than most of my cohort. I’ve lived in sixteen different states. And when I was little, I wanted to be a dancer.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s silence for a moment as everyone thinks over her statements. I can’t figure out which is the lie. I’ve never asked her age (I never really cared). I had always just assumed she was about my age. And the sixteen states thing? Kind of unbelievable, but not impossible, I suppose. I don’t know what to make of her wanting to be a dancer. I can’t picture it, so I decide that must be her lie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanted to be a dancer,” the drama teacher says. Great minds think alike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina shakes her head and smiles. “No, that one’s true, actually. I was a dancer for sixteen years.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, so I suck at every part of this game. After the musical ended, Gina told us that she acted a bit in high school, but she never said anything about dancing, too. I try to imagine what style of dance she would have practiced. Ballroom seems too flowy and breezy for her. Maybe hip-hop? Jazz? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not actually as young as you said,” another guy suggests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina smirks. “Actually, I am. I graduated early. I just turned twenty-two a few weeks ago.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Heather gasps. “Oh my gosh, you’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I never would’ve known. You carry yourself with such maturity.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles and adjusts her hair a little. For a moment, I’m a little jealous. I struggled to come up with two vaguely interesting truths and one lie about myself, but Gina is apparently able to pull out fun facts like party tricks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How many states have you lived in?” I blurt. I ignore the others’ looks of confusion, looks that all say the same thing: </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t you already know that? Aren’t you friends? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eleven,” she answers, turning to me. “Plus three foreign countries and two US territories.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m stunned. I grew up in the same house in Salt Lake City and didn’t leave until college. Gina’s lived in eleven states and a few more places overseas. Why would anyone ever need to move that much? What was she running from?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time the game wraps, it’s almost six o’clock. “Darn, I guess we don’t have time for another game,” Heather says. She seems genuinely disappointed but I, for one, am relieved. “Dinner is being served in the reception area where we gathered earlier. And please join us for drinks and mingling at the hotel bar tonight at eight!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We file out of the conference room and into the reception hall. The tables that once held our name tags are now covered in sternos and catering trays. Chairs are strewn all over the room in little clusters. I spot Ashlyn looping her purse over the back of one and rush over to join her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” she says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh, I know the food is going to be disappointing but I’m starving,” Ashlyn tells me without missing a beat. “I just hope they have vegan options that go beyond salad, sans dressing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I laugh as we make our way up to the buffet table. Everything looks lukewarm and mediocre. Garlic bread that looks like it could break teeth. Some kind of chicken dish that’s pretending to be chicken piccata, marinating in gravy thin enough to be water and coated in capers that have turned gray from boiling in the tray. Pasta primavera, consisting of overcooked noodles with diced carrots sprinkled over the top. Typical conference fair. It’s about quantity, not quality. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn wrinkles her nose as she uses the tongs to heap pasta onto her plate. “I guess I should be careful what I wish for,” she chuckles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I decide to take my chances on the chicken. Gina sweeps up behind me as I set a slightly-too-firm cutlet on my plate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” she says to me and Ashlyn at the same time. Ashlyn says hi back, and I offer her a faint smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re sitting over there,” I jerk my head in the direction of the seats Ash grabbed for us. “If you wanna join.” I figure there’s no harm in offering. I spent the rest of last school year telling myself (and Ricky, Kourtney, Ashlyn, Big Red, Seb…anyone who would listen, really) that bygones were bygones. That Gina and I were on peaceful terms. Not good, necessarily, but neutral at least. And as much as I was hoping to not have to see or think about her this summer, I can’t ignore the fact that she’s here now. Mama D always says that the best judge of character is not what you do for the people you like, but for the people you don’t. She’s full of platitudes and she dispenses them like candy, but she’s almost always right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Gina says, following me and Ashlyn to the cluster of seats. I sit down and balance the thin paper plate on my lap, hoping to god I don’t spill anything on Ricky’s hoodie. Not that he’ll care - he’s pretty much accepted that he’s not getting it back - but I’ll be devastated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So how was your session?” I turn to Ash. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not bad,” she says, making a face down at her plate as she swallows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’d you guys do?” Gina asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Standard icebreaker stuff, you know? Go around the room and tell everyone where you’re from, what you teach. We did the toilet paper game.” She catches my questioning look. “You have to rip off however much you would use to wipe, and for each square of toilet paper you take, you have to name one fact about yourself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought two truths and a lie was bad.” Seriously, Ashlyn’s icebreaker sounds infinitely more humiliating. Only the most sadistic of minds could have come up with something so ridiculous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn laughs. “It isn’t so bad. Unless you’re the asshole who thinks it’s hilarious to take twenty squares. Is that all you guys did? Two truths and a lie?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s pretty much all we had time for. So tell me about your roommate.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ash shrugs. “There’s not much to tell. Her name’s Kelly. She’s from Provo. Kinda weird.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean by kinda weird?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, everything she brought is pink. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her glasses. Her suitcase. Her toothbrush. Her body wash. All of her clothes. Even her bras, which she showed me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not on her, I hope,” Gina puts in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, thank god. But you know what she did show me? Pictures of her pet iguana. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So </span>
  </em>
  <span>many pictures of her pet iguana.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where is she?” I ask, looking around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not here,” Ashlyn responds. “She went back up to the room to drink her ginger-turmeric nutrition shot. Like she seems nice, don’t get me wrong. Just…a little odd.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina is mostly silent for the rest of dinner while Ash and I talk. It’s not like we’re excluding her on purpose, but Ashlyn and I have a lot more to talk about with each other than we do with Gina. I feel a little bad every time I notice her shift in her chair a little, or make a face like she wants to say something but doesn’t know what to say. Ash shoots a question at her every once in a while, but other than that it’s mostly a two-person conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See you guys at the bar at eight?” Ash asks as we all get up to throw our plates out. It’s 7:30. I’ve spent all day traveling. All I want is to go back upstairs, FaceTime Ricky, and go to bed. But Ashlyn looks hopeful and I should probably mingle, so I agree. Gina adds that she’ll be there too. I’m not sure if she’s agreeing by choice or out of some sense obligation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We go up to our rooms to freshen up. I take off the hoodie and throw on a different shirt while Gina touches up her makeup in the bathroom, and then we swap places. I haven’t worn makeup all day. I didn’t really see the point when I was going to be spending most of the day in transit. I debate putting a little lipstick or something on, but decide against it. Too much effort when I don’t plan to stick around for too long. So I just wash my face, redo my ponytail, and emerge from the bathroom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ready?” Gina asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess.” </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The hotel bar is pretty crowded. I recognize a few faces from our group, but I can’t remember their names. I guess the icebreakers failed their purpose. Gina makes a beeline for the bartender and orders a Manhattan, but I hang back, scanning the drinks menu without a clue as to what I want. There’s too many options and I can’t decide, so I play it safe and order a negroni. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We find a table in a corner and stand around it. Ashlyn joins us, copper mug in hand, but soon flits off to talk to someone from her group. I can’t fault her. The point is to mingle and meet other people, after all. I glance over at Gina, who sips her drink pensively. When she catches me looking, she offers me a sympathetic smile. At least we’re in this together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The drama teacher from my group - Donna (she reintroduces herself, thank god) - comes over and we talk for a bit. Mostly comparing notes about shows. They did </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hairspray</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which was a contender for this coming year’s musical at East High. I consider mentioning that Ricky and I staged </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beauty and the Beast </span>
  </em>
  <span>with a cast of understudies, but Gina’s standing in earshot and I don’t really feel like bringing that up. Especially not when we’re sleeping in the same room later. Donna asks if I know what show we’re doing next year. I do, and Gina perks up a bit. I bite back a smile and lower my voice to just above a whisper so that Gina can’t hear when I divulge the secret. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a good one!” Donna says, eyes twinkling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m saved by a FaceTime from Ricky at 8:45 and quickly excuse myself, rushing back up to my room. When I answer the call, Ricky’s holding the phone just a little too close to his face. He always holds the phone just a little too close to his face. A lazy smile spreads across his features when he sees me. He’s in his bed. It’s almost ten o’clock for him. I told him he could stay at the condo while I was gone, but I knew he wouldn’t. It feels empty when he’s not there, and I can only imagine how empty it must feel to him if I’m not there, either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says softly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” I can already tell my face is going to hurt from smiling by the time we hang up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s LA?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not bad,” I say. “But I’ve barely seen any of it besides the hotel. We’re right by the Staples Center, though.” I climb off the bed and take him over to the window to show him the view. The city’s lit up against the dark sky. I’m still close enough to the ground that I can hear the cars going past, the occasional siren or horn honking. The windows up and down the street sparkle like jewels. The sidewalks are packed with people. Not for the first time, I wish he was actually here with me, taking in the view in person instead of through my phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ricky fills me in on his day. Three guitar lessons. The last one, a seven year-old who can’t sit still, has been giving him trouble for weeks but he finally learned how to play a chord today. The triumph on his face makes it sound like he’s just discovered the next Santana. Maybe he has. He’s been helping Big Red at the skateshop, too. Ever since the championship last fall, business has been booming. Red’s even talked about hiring another full-time employee to keep up with demand. I guess that’s what happens when Tony Hawk personally gives your business his seal of approval. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I fill Ricky in on the flight with Ashlyn. I tell him about the icebreakers and the shitty food, which makes him laugh. “You’re never allowed to make fun of my cooking again,” he tells me, even though I’ve only done that once. And even then, only because he burned the lasagna. He’s a good cook otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I haven't brought up Gina yet. I’m not sure how he’ll react. Last we talked about it, he was on similar terms with her. Peaceful, but not friendly. I’m trying to figure out how to work her into the conversation when I hear the keycard in the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s in the middle of telling me about going to the skatepark with Big Red, but I cut him off. “Babe, I meant to tell you. There’s someone else here that we know.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides Ashlyn?” he asks, pausing mid-story. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who is it? EJ?” I can hear the momentary worry in his voice, even though he tries to hide it, and I try not to wince at my ex-boyfriend’s name coming out of my current boyfriend’s mouth. The whole dynamic between me and EJ and Ricky and EJ is an even bigger mess. It’s a nice reminder that things could always be worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no! Not EJ. My roommate…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door opens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s great!” Ricky says. “Who’s your roommate?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina and I make eye contact and when she spots the phone in my hand, she mouths ‘sorry’ at me. I angle the phone toward her, and though I can’t see the screen anymore, I can guess the face Ricky’s making. Disbelief, jaw hanging open just a little. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings. His face gives him away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gina?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, Ricky,” she waves shyly. I’m not sure if it’s the light, but I think I can see a hint of red in Gina’s complexion. Maybe it’s just the Manhattan she drank. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turn the phone back to me and Gina gives me a sheepish smile before darting into the bathroom and shutting the door. I grab my headphones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gina’s your roommate?” Ricky sputters as soon as I have my earbuds in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yup,” I purse my lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has she said anything?” He’s sitting up now, holding the phone at arm’s length as if he’s afraid Gina could crawl through it at any moment. “About... you know?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” I shake my head. “Surprising, right? You know, it’s weird but everything’s been pretty calm.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good. But babe, be careful, alright?” Ricky pleads. I fight back the urge to make a joke about Gina pouring venom in my ear while I sleep. Ricky’s eyes are wide and serious, and I get why he’s reluctant to trust her after everything that went down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will. Hey, did you know she lived in eleven different states?” I ask, changing the subject. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Ricky nods, which takes me aback. “Well, I didn’t know the exact number. But I knew she moved around a lot for her mom’s job.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” I frown. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised that Ricky knows this about Gina. There was a point when they were friendly, long before he and I were close. “I just found that out tonight. Okay, well how about this: did you know she was a dancer?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That I did not know,” Ricky concedes. “How’d you find that out?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Two truths and a lie,” I answer. “It was one of our icebreakers.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What were your two truths and a lie?” he asks, one eyebrow arched suggestively.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I grin. “I’ll give you all three. You tell me which is the lie: My boyfriend is the most talented skateboarder-slash-musician in the world.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“True,” he interrupts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I roll my eyes at him. “My boyfriend is a total hunk.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Also true.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And my boyfriend is perfect and has no flaws.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ricky chuckles. “Wow, babe, you’re really bad at this game. They’re all true.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe they’re all lies,” I fire back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ouch,” Ricky says. “Okay, I’ve got one truth for you. I miss you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I miss you, too.” I’m tempted to add another truth. I’m tempted to tell him I love him. But we haven’t really said that to each other yet. We’ve told each other things we love </span>
  <em>
    <span>about </span>
  </em>
  <span>each other, but we haven’t actually said ‘I love you’ to one another. And that’s fine. It’s only been a few months. We said we’d take it slow. Besides, if I’m going to tell Ricky I love him, I’d rather it be in-person. So I bite my tongue while he finishes telling me about his day, but the whole time my mind is screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I hope he gets the message telepathically. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina comes out of the bathroom almost immediately after we hang up, wiping her face with a towel. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were on the phone.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” I say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You guys are really cute,” she adds. For a moment, I look for any sign that she’s being sarcastic. I can’t find one, and then I feel bad for assuming ill intent in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long’s it been? A couple months, right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Officially? About four months at this point.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And unofficially?” Gina grins. I frown, and her smile drops. “Sorry. That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too personal. Forget I asked.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” I reassure her. But I don’t answer the question. I would if I could. But truthfully, I don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>when </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ricky and I started unofficially. Cliche as it sounds, it’s hard to remember what my life was like before Ricky was in it. And from the moment he appeared at East High last school year, it feels like some part of me - however small - loved him. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>It’s 3 AM and I should be asleep. But it’s hard to sleep in a room that’s not mine. The mattress is too firm and the temperature is just a little too cold even though Gina and I both adjusted the thermostat twice. The walls are the wrong color and the smell is all wrong. The first time I stayed over at Ricky’s (intentionally, not just falling asleep out of sheer exhaustion), it was the same way. I stayed up half the night listening to the box fan circulating on the floor, watching the open window rustle the curtains and feeling him breathe deeply beside me. From the diaphragm, because he’s a singer through and through, even in his sleep. Only it’s easier to fall asleep in Ricky’s room than in this hotel. Ricky’s room isn’t freezing, and his mattress is soft, and it smells like him - cool and piney with a hint of metallic guitar strings. And in Ricky’s room, Ricky’s right beside me. He starfishes in his sleep, so he’s never out of reach. If I roll over in this bed, all I’ll touch is empty space and more mattress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can hear Gina tossing and turning in the other bed. I turn over and sit up. I can just make out her outline across the room. Her back is to me. I don’t know what compels me to say anything when I could just as easily pretend to be asleep. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re both suffering from insomnia at the moment, and talking beats suffering together individually. “Can’t sleep?” I ask in a stage whisper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina rolls over to face me, picking her head up and resting it against her hand. “Nope,” she says, and the clarity in her voice tells me that she’s been awake this whole time. “You too?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod, then realize she probably can’t see me nodding in the dark. “Yeah.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s funny,” Gina says after a minute. “You’d think with all the moving around I did as a kid, I’d be able to fall asleep anywhere. But no. I can never fall asleep in a new environment.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s 3 AM and we should be sleeping, but we’re not, and I figure there’s no better time to ask what’s been on my mind since our icebreaker. There’s something about being awake with someone else at 3 AM that makes you feel connected to them, even if you don’t necessarily get along. Mama D calls it the witching hour: the time when the devil is awake and active. I don’t think there are any devils in this room tonight. “Why did you move around so much as a kid?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina chuckles, but there’s no humor behind it. “My mom works for FEMA,” she says. “Frontline crisis management. When disaster strikes, she’s there. And she’s a single mom, so growing up, whenever she moved, I had to move, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m the first to admit that I had it good growing up. Mama D is a lawyer and Mama C is a social worker. They have stable careers. Safe ones. Ones that let them settle into a quiet, suburban neighborhood in Salt Lake City with good public schools. The kind of neighborhood you never have to leave and never want to leave. The kind of neighborhood where the residents are totally cool with a family made up of two women and their daughter. Their careers paid for two cars (three when I turned sixteen) and summer vacations and the IVF treatments that brought me into this world in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t imagine having to restart all the time. I can’t imagine moving to a new place and going to a new school while knowing in the back of my mind that I’ll probably be leaving in a few months. I can’t imagine going through my entire childhood with no permanent friends. Kourtney was my rock through all my years of school. She’s still my rock now. We can’t go more than two or three days without FaceTiming or seeing each other in person. I can’t picture not having someone like that. I wonder if that’s what it’s like for Gina. Surely there must be a few friends she’s kept in contact with over the years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That must’ve been tough,” I reply. I know it’s painfully inadequate. That “tough” probably doesn’t even begin to sum it up. But I don’t know what else to say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina snorts. “It wasn’t all bad,” she says, but something about it sounds rehearsed. “I got to go to, like, nine proms.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Were you prom queen?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As if,” Gina laughs dryly. “I wasn’t even in the court. Besides,” she adds, “new girls don’t get prom queen.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And we’re back to the depressing part of the topic. “So nine proms, huh?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something like that,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nine different dates?” I ask. I can’t help it. I’m nosy. Kourtney and I went to prom together as friends. We told ourselves we didn’t need boys to have a good time. It’s funny. I spent the whole night watching EJ dance with Emily Pratt and wishing I was in her place. Years later, I got the chance and we all know how that worked out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nine different dates, nine different states,” Gina replies. “Not literally, but it feels like it sometimes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What states did you live in?” She said eleven states, plus a handful of foreign countries and territories. I can’t even name eleven natural disasters, much less the states they took place in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s see,” Gina says, as if she’s reaching far back into her memory. “I was born in Arizona.” She starts ticking off states on her hand. “We moved to Louisiana right after Hurricane Katrina and New Jersey right after Hurricane Sandy. Florida and Georgia after… a bunch of hurricanes, honestly. And there was Arkansas after the flooding, Kansas, Texas, and Oklahoma post-tornado, California during the wildfires…How many is that? Ten?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, and Utah, obviously.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What natural disaster brought you to Utah?” I ask, aware of the fact that in any other situation, that statement would be an insult. In any other situation, I probably would’ve meant it as an insult, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“None,” Gina replies. “Utah was my own choice.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” I blurt. Not that Utah’s a bad place or anything - I turned out okay, after all - but I don’t see how it could compare to Florida or Texas or any of the foreign countries she’s lived in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When’s the last time you guys had a natural disaster?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pause for a moment, wracking my brain. A couple of blizzards, maybe? But nobody got hurt. We just had to close school for a few days. Some bad rainstorms? But again, no injuries. Just some flooding. “I can’t think of any.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Gina replies, and suddenly I get it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a while, I press Gina about where else she’s lived (Puerto Rico after a particularly bad hurricane, Guam after an earthquake, Argentina after a massive flood, Indonesia after a tsunami, and Morocco to help with drought relief). I ask her about Argentina, where she learned a bit of tango, and Indonesia, where she learned to cook meals not too dissimilar from the things Mama D makes when I visit home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When you’re always the new girl, you have to find ways to entertain yourself,” she tells me. “I picked up all kinds of hobbies.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, her words start to slur a little. She leaves some sentences unfinished, or starts to repeat herself. And then she stops responding at all, and I can hear her deep, even breaths fill the room. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling a bit longer, trying to figure out how all this new information fits with the Gina Porter who arrived at East High last year. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Wave That's Crashing on the Ground</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The shower is running when I wake up. I can hear it before I even open my eyes, and for a moment I’m surprised that Ricky is up before me. And annoyed at myself, too, because Ricky likes to take long showers, which means there won’t be any hot water left.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes snap open and I’m flooded with unfamiliar sights. These aren’t my sheets. Those aren’t my walls. That’s when I remember that I’m in a hotel room in LA, not my condo. The sunlight is glaringly bright - we forgot to close the blinds last night - and I squint around the room to get my bearings. I turn and find Gina’s bed empty, the covers thrown back and the pillow rumpled and unfluffed. She’s singing a Lizzo song quietly in the shower and she’s not half-bad. I reach for my phone. 7:56. Which means it’s 8:56 for Ricky. He’s probably still asleep, but I text him good morning anyway and debate waiting for Gina before heading down for breakfast. But I don’t know how long Gina takes in the shower, so I grab my toothbrush and brush my teeth in the sink by the minifridge before heading downstairs in my pajamas.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The continental breakfast in the lobby takes up one corner, where a bunch of tables are arranged around a center buffet. I survey the offerings: shriveled sausage links, paper-thin bacon strips, mounds of mushy scrambled eggs. A sad cabinet full of stale bagels sits off to one side beside a basket of bruised fruit. I sigh, pour myself a cup of orange juice (more pulp than juice), and heap my plate with the soggy eggs. I miss Ricky’s cooking. At least he knows that scrambled is my least favorite form of egg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I spot Ashlyn sitting at a table, nothing but a dry-looking piece of toast and a brown-speckled banana on her plate. “Morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” she chirps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This seat taken?” I ask, pointing to the chair across from her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All yours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sink down in front of her and yawn. The lack of sleep is catching up with me, and I’m already dreading how tired I’ll feel by the end of the day. On the other hand, maybe that’s just what I need. I might actually be able to fall asleep tonight if I’m already exhausted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So? How was it?” Ashlyn asks, taking a sip of her black coffee while I dump packet after packet of black pepper on my eggs in the vain hope of making them taste like something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know…” she says, leaning forward and dropping her voice. “Gina? Please tell me she’s still alive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I giggle. “Let’s be real. Of the two of us, Gina’s far more likely to turn homicidal than I am. I would bet money on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair,” Ash concedes. “But seriously, I want the tea!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a time when I would have assumed Gina slept in a coffin with her eyes open, and that her morning routine included bathing in the blood of puppies. But after our conversation last night, I can tell something’s changed. Maybe it’s the magic of the witching hour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It actually wasn’t that bad,” I admit. “Like, we’re not best friends or anything but we’re...civil? Shocking, I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a relief,” Ashlyn replies, then looks over my shoulder. “Speaking of…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn around to see Gina approaching our table. She’s changed into what I assume is her outfit for the day: a bright red blouse and dark pants. Her hair hangs loose and damp, falling in curls past her shoulders. She looks remarkably refreshed for someone who’s running on less than five hours of sleep and I’m more than a little jealous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Gina says, smiling brightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grab a chair,” Ashlyn smiles back, shifting her own over so that Gina can squeeze another seat in at the table. She steals a seat from an empty table nearby and slides into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you sleep?” Gina asks Ashlyn. She doesn’t need to ask me - she already knows. I take a sip of my juice and make a face when I have to chew the pulp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Terrible,” Ash sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” I ask. Maybe hotel-induced insomnia is more common than I thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So remember how I was saying I don’t mind my roommate?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh-oh,” Gina murmurs, but she looks intrigued. “What’s wrong with Kelly from Provo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn snorts. “Kelly from Provo snores like a tractor trailer. I swear, I was this close to sleeping in the lobby last night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Ash,” I say sympathetically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it gets worse. She’s also a sleeptalker. And I’m not talking about occasional mumbling in the middle of the night. I can deal with that. I mean she straight-up yells.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina lets out an incredulous laugh. “You’re kidding.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish. It took me a few minutes to realize she was sleeping and not arguing with someone over the phone. I need to get a pair of earplugs if I’m going to last another night in that room.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit quietly for a moment, pushing eggs around my plate. I never in a million years would have imagined that sharing a room with Gina was the better option. But then again, I never in a million years would have guessed that Gina lived in eleven different states, or that she was a dancer. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>After breakfast, I head back upstairs to get ready. Our sessions start at 9:30. I jump in the shower quickly, letting the bathroom fog up with steam. I like my showers hot. Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>scalding</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If I don’t look like a lobster by the time I emerge, it wasn’t a truly satisfying shower. Ricky always makes fun of me for it and tells me I’m going to burn off all my skin one day. I ask him if he’d break up with me if that happened - if I was nothing but muscle and bone. He laughs and says never in a million years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hot water soaks into me and I can feel myself reviving. Like a plant that’s just been watered for the first time in a week. I make a mental note to check if Ricky’s been taking care of my plant in my absence. I’m sure he has - he remembers to water it more often than I do and it’s been looking much greener since he’s been coming around more often. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shut the water off and step onto the thin, white bath mat. The mirror is fogged up, completely obscuring my reflection. I wipe away a patch so I can brush my hair and blow it dry. Gina left the hairdryer hanging off its mount, but it surprises me how little I’m bothered by it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I emerge from the bathroom, dressed and ready, it feels like I’ve climbed into a whole new body. The cool air of the hotel room washes over me, combining with the warmth of the steamy bathroom to make me feel pleasant all over. Gina’s already gone down and I quickly slip on my shoes before heading out the door.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The sessions are broken out by subject area today. English and social studies are grouped together. STEM, phys ed, and fine arts all have their own groups, too. I find Ashlyn waiting outside the conference room where our first workshop of the day is supposed to take place. I spy Gina down the hall, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. She looks around at the others lining up for their first session, then takes out her phone and starts tapping around on it. I feel bad for her. At least I’ve got Ashlyn to keep me company all day. She’s got no one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our first presentation is basically a sales pitch. Typical. They parade a bunch of textbooks and materials in front of us and hand us pamphlets with the request that we forward them to our principals. We nod and smile and promise, knowing full-well that even if we did like the things they showed us, we almost certainly wouldn’t have the budget to buy them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second workshop is all about making connections across subjects. When they ask everyone to pair up with someone from another subject area, I immediately turn to Ashlyn with a grin. We’re handed a bunch of books and papers and given the task of creating lessons that use all of the materials and connect to both English and history. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I flip through the books. “What do you have?” I ask, looking over at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs. “I’ve got an article on the founding of Salem, Massachusetts and a few documents about Joseph McCarthy. I mean, they’re all important pieces of history but I don’t get the connection. What do you have?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hold up the books. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Scarlet Letter </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Crucible</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And then it hits me and I inhale sharply just as Ashlyn’s eyes widen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Witch hunt!” we shout at the same time, and then laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Duh!” Ashlyn shakes her head. “Salem should’ve been my first hint. The Witch Trials! And then you’ve got Joseph McCarthy who went around accusing everyone of being enemies of the state…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” I say, picking up her thread. “And both of these books talk about people being wrongfully accused. I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Crucible </span>
  </em>
  <span>is literally about the Salem Witch Trials.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can work with this,” Ashlyn says, reaching across and picking up </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Scarlet Letter</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We spend the next thirty minutes coming up with a loose outline of how we could work together to teach a combined class on English and history. We run out of time before we can present it, which actually bums me out a bit because I’m pretty proud of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should definitely show that to Gutierrez and see if he’ll let us do it for real,” Ashlyn says as we leave the conference room and head out to the reception hall for lunch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I’m doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Crucible </span>
  </em>
  <span>with my seniors this year, so maybe we’ll have a chance.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>We spend the rest of the day shuffling around various conference rooms, participating in discussions and listening to presentations : “Incorporating Film and TV in the Classroom,” “Historical Fiction in the Liberal Arts.” I jot down good ideas in my notebook. I feel like I’m in college again. I became a peer leader during junior year. It was my suitemate Natalie’s idea, but she didn’t want to do it by herself so I let her convince me to join her. It was actually pretty fun, and the free housing didn’t hurt either. Our training was pretty much the same as this conference: rotating through a series of rooms where speakers talked about all kinds of topics mixed with the occasional group discussion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel my energy starting to flag midway through the afternoon, so I stop in the reception hall between sessions for a lukewarm cup of coffee leftover after all the room-temperature sandwiches from lunch have been cleared away. The caffeine kicks in just before the final session of the day - a keynote address from a speaker whose name I don’t recognize. She has a doctorate in something, though, so she must be impressive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heather isn’t the one to greet us when we’ve all taken our seats in the large presentation room. Another one of the coordinators - Linda, infinitely less in-your-face than Heather and therefore infinitely more tolerable - has been popping into our sessions all day. She stands at the front of the room, red-haired and ruddy-faced, smiling warmly. A projector casts a blue glow over her and her shadow is elongated against the screen pulled down behind her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At exactly 4:30, the screen changes over to reveal a red title slide. The name of the presentation, FINDING THE HUMANITY IN THE HUMANITIES, is spelled out in gold letters alongside a picture of a blonde, fortysomething woman with a pixie cut smiling just a little too widely. The subheading introduces her as Andrea Blake, Ph.D.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, everyone,” Linda says. Her voice is smooth and rich, pouring out of the microphone and over us. “Thank you for joining us. We have a wonderful guest speaker for you today. She is a professor of education at the University of Chicago who specializes in teaching English and social studies, and she’s here to talk about the importance of these subjects and the work you all do in classrooms across the West Coast and Mountain States. So without further ado, it is my pleasure to introduce to you, Dr. Andrea Blake.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We applaud politely as the woman in the photograph rises from the front row and takes the microphone from Linda. The first thing that strikes me is how tall she is. Ashlyn and I are sitting towards the back, and even from this distance I can tell she must be over five-foot ten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Linda,” she says. “And thank you all for taking time off from your summer breaks to think a little bit more about how we can all be better teachers. There’s a million other things to do in LA, so I’m honored you decided to be here with me. What I want to talk to you all about today is just how important things like social studies and English can be. We’ve all heard how science and math are our future. How all future jobs are going to rely on those skills. How many of us have heard that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every hand in the audience shoots up, mine included. Ashlyn leans over and says quietly, “Literally every time I’m with my parents.” I start to say I’m sorry for her, but she’s smiling almost like it’s funny, so I smile back instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve taught in a lot of places,” Dr. Blake continues. “And over and over again, what I’ve seen is that, yes, our colleagues who teach STEM are vital to our students’ success without a doubt. But what’s just as important, if not more, are the things our subjects teach. The critical thinking. The analytical skills. How to talk to other people and listen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really </span>
  </em>
  <span>listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m about ready to check out. I agree with everything Dr. Blake’s saying, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. It’s the same morale-boosting, rally-the-troops type speech dozens of other people have given me in their attempts to reassure me that English has value, even though I already know it does. But then Dr. Blake says something that catches me off-guard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But more than that, what English and social studies do for us that many other subjects don’t is this: they teach empathy,” she pauses and lets her words sink in. “For all my social studies and history teachers out there, it’s built right into the name of your subject. You help students study people and the way their interactions have helped shape the past, present, and future. You encourage them to look at things from all sides, to consider every perspective. And if they can do that for historical events and historical figures, they can do it with the people around them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance over at Ashlyn and she’s smiling broadly, nodding along intently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And my English teachers,” Dr. Blake continues. She’s looking out over the crowd, and her eyes settle somewhere in the back row. I know she probably can’t see individual faces, but I can’t escape the feeling that she’s looking directly at me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t think of any other subject, any other work, whose purpose is to teach empathy more than English. Think about it. You teach books and plays and poems and movies that are filled with characters. Beautiful characters. Flawed characters. Characters that mess up and sometimes do bad things. But there’s always nuance, isn’t there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I find myself nodding along. Dr. Blake’s eyes bore into me, like this message isn’t for everyone gathered here, but for me specifically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too often in this world, we put people in boxes. The ones we like - the ones who are there for us, we put them in one category and label it ‘good.’ And the ones who wrong us or hurt us, regardless of intent, go into a separate category that we label ‘bad.’ But it’s not really like that, is it? Literature teaches us that. Our favorite characters are often, like us, flawed. They do hurtful, selfish things. And yet, more often than not, we find it in ourselves to forgive those characters anyway because stories have a beautiful way of giving us context. We understand these characters fully. We </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>them in and out. We understand why they do the things they do. Even if we can’t always excuse their actions, we can forgive them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit up a little straighter and swallow. I’m pretty sure the gulp is audible. Dr. Blake pauses for a moment, and when she speaks again, I’m positive she’s looking straight at me. “When we know someone, it becomes a lot harder to hate them. It becomes much harder to put them in the bad category. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>is why your work is so important. Because if we can learn to forgive characters in stories, then we can also learn to forgive ourselves and those around us.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I walk out of the presentation room feeling dazed. The conference center windows let in the blinding late-afternoon sunlight. Everything is golden. I feel the need to hold my hand above my eyes to shield them against the dazzling brightness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn falls into step beside me. “Wow,” she says. “She’s a really good speaker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I murmur distractedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I know dinner’s at six, but to be honest, the food here sucks,” Ashlyn continues. “What do you say we skip the hotel dinner tonight and go out somewhere?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” I don’t know why the idea makes me feel so guilty. We aren’t kids anymore, and we paid money to be here. Whether we eat the food provided or not is entirely our choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really,” Ash replies, nudging me a little. “C’mon, Nini, we’re in LA and we haven’t left the hotel once. I’m not saying we gotta go to a club or anything, that’s not my scene either. But it’d be nice to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>while we’re here, right? Besides, I don’t think I can stand another night of their so-called vegan options. I need real food.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, yeah,” I agree. She’s right. It would be a total waste if I didn’t get to see some parts of the city besides our hotel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great!” she says brightly. “I’m gonna go upstairs and freshen up. Meet in the lobby at six?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deal,” I grin.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>I’m surprised to find Gina already in the room when I key in. She’s changed into sweats and she’s sitting up in bed, the TV tuned to Family Feud. It looks like she showered again. She shuts the TV off as I enter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she says, turning to me. Her tone is light. Forced casual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” I return. “Didn’t think you’d be back already.” I’m still standing in the doorway, but I’m not sure why. I take one step into the room, then another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My last session ended a bit early,” Gina explains. “How were yours?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were good,” I say vaguely, nodding to confirm my own words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cool,” she replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We stay that way for a minute: Gina sitting up in bed, regarding me with a close-lipped smile, me standing two feet into the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway,” we both start at the same time, then chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You first,” Gina says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shake my head. “I was just gonna say that I’m going to freshen up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good idea,” she answers. “Dinner’s in what? An hour?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I nod, grabbing a few things out of my drawer and heading for the bathroom. I pause in the doorway. “Hey, Gina?” The words are tumbling out of my mouth before I can reconsider them. “Ashlyn and I were actually gonna ditch dinner and go out somewhere. Would you...maybe...like to join us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina’s eyes widen. One part of my brain is screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are you doing? What </span>
  </em>
  <span>are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you doing? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But another, slightly louder part of my brain is screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>empathy, empathy, empathy </span>
  </em>
  <span>on repeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” she asks disbelievingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I nod. “The food’s pretty terrible,” I offer as a lame excuse. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst -“ I stop myself. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina lets out a little laugh, but the smile on her face is one of the most genuine I’ve ever seen her give. “That sounds great, actually.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I return her smile. “Great! We’re meeting in the lobby at six.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, hairbrush and makeup bag in hand. I hadn’t planned on going out on the town, so I didn’t exactly bring “going out” clothes, but I put on a black skirt and a white blouse and text a picture to Kourtney for approval. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yaaaas, girl! </span>
  </em>
  <span>She replies, tacking on a few praise hands emojis for good measure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I send back three blow-kiss emojis and start running the brush through my hair while Gina goes into the bathroom to do her makeup. At 6:02, we leave the room together and take the elevator down to the lobby. Ashlyn is already there, wearing a pale pink maxi dress, her purse draped in the crook of her arm while she texts someone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gina’s joining us,” I announce as we walk up to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn looks up and sees Gina standing behind me. For a moment, she seems genuinely surprised, and then her face softens into a smile. “That’s great!” she says brightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” Gina asks. She’s standing over my shoulder, just a little too close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn shrugs. “I thought we’d just walk around and find something interesting. I mean, it’s Downtown LA, right? The options are endless.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m game,” I agree. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>We walk around for a half hour, taking in the sights. The sun is still out, and the heat rises from the asphalt in waves in the middle of the road. It’s hard to stay together with so many people crowding the sidewalk. The rush of passing cars and the smell of gasoline lingers in the air on every street we walk down. There’s so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>life </span>
  </em>
  <span>all around us. Even on its busiest day, Salt Lake isn’t this chaotic. It’s funny. I’ve never felt like a small-town girl before. I guess LA has a way of making everyone’s hometown feel small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, we stop outside of a restaurant with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. The entire front facade has been rolled back to let the evening air in, revealing a trendy interior: dark wood tables, dim lighting, a huge, well-stocked bar in the middle with patrons clustered around, dressed in fashionable business-casual attire. We’ll fit right in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m surprised when we’re told there’s a twenty minute wait. It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday. How many people could possibly be going out to eat? Eventually, the hostess seats us at a four-top outside. The waiter comes by and fills our glasses with water and Ashlyn asks for a bottle of pinot grigio. It arrives chilled and frosty, beads of condensation forming on the bottle as he uncorks it and pours a little into a glass. He holds it out to Gina with a winning smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To taste, ma’am,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina smiles softly and accepts the glass, swirling it slightly under her nose before taking a sip. I’m glad he handed it to her and not me, because I definitely wouldn’t have been able to pull that off with as much grace. “It’s perfect,” Gina says, setting the glass down. He fills it for her, then pours for Ashlyn and me and sets the bottle in the little tub of ice that’s rapidly turning to water in the heat. We place an order for bruschetta and the waiter departs, but not before sending Gina one last, bright-white smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s definitely into you,” Ashlyn says to her as soon as he’s out of earshot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina snorts. “Oh, please,” she says. “I worked in food service. I wasn’t above flirting with customers to up my tips.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>more than flirting to get more tips,” Ash replies. The smirk on her face is girlish and teasing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He seems nice,” I add. I’m not sure why I’m so invested. “What did he say his name was? Tucker? Tanner?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tanner,” Gina fills in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>pay attention!” Ashlyn cries triumphantly, as if she’s just coaxed a confession of love out of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He told us, I remembered. That’s all. Besides,” Gina sniffs, taking another sip of wine, “he’s not my type anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” I ask. He’s good-looking, in a generic, California sort-of-way. He’s about our age. Tall and tanned, with neat, light brown hair and a cleft chin. He’s not really my type, either. Not after I’ve seen Ricky’s hair, curly and streaked with gold highlights from the sun. Not after I’ve seen how soft and warm Ricky’s brown eyes turn in the morning, when we’ve just woken up and all we’ve seen is each other. And definitely, </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>not after I’ve known what it feels like to hold Ricky’s hand or to write a song with him in the living room, when the whole house is filled with our voices that somehow manage to find a harmony without any written notes. But still, this waiter is objectively nice to look at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen his teeth?” Gina says. “He definitely whitens them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help but laugh. Before Ricky, and before EJ, I would have </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed </span>
  </em>
  <span>for a guy to look at me the way Tanner looks at Gina. So what if he whitens his teeth? It seems like such a nitpicky thing to get hung up over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with that?” Ashlyn echoes my thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It means he’s vain,” Gina answers like it’s obvious. “I can’t date someone who’s more into themselves than they are anybody else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, fine, so don’t date him,” Ashlyn says, raising her glass to her lips with a secretive smirk, “But no one says you can’t have a little fun before we go home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina’s eyes widen, and then she laughs, too. “Ashlyn Caswell,” she says with a scandalized tone, “what kind of girl do you take me for?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wine is making me bold and giggly and a little warm. I can feel the steady blush creeping up from my collarbones to my face. “I’ll let you have the room all to yourself tonight if you want,” I pile on. “Just say the word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure what’s gotten into me - into any of us, really, but we’re giggling like schoolgirls. And when Tanner returns with the appetizer, it’s all we can do to stop ourselves from hysterically laughing. We send secret glances to one another as he takes our orders, and we’re practically rolling on the floor the second he walks away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ash refills our glasses for the second time. Or maybe the third? I can’t remember. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough about me,” Gina says, seizing a piece of bread and piling the bruschetta on top. She turns to me. “Let’s talk about how cute this one and her boyfriend are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This one? Since when have I become </span>
  <em>
    <span>this one</span>
  </em>
  <span>? As if we’re old friends meeting up for dinner and not - well, whatever we are. Acquaintances? Coworkers who happened to find themselves all at the same conference by chance? But I don’t say anything. I don’t even mind, except for the fact that she’s throwing me under the bus. The second she says it, Ashlyn’s fawning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about it,” she says, shooting me glassy moon eyes. “Rini is true relationship goals.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rini?” I make a face. “Since when have we become Rini?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, would you prefer Rikini instead?” Ash replies, laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ew, no!” I laugh. But I can’t help but feel a little bit pleased. I’ve never had a couple name with anyone before. EJ and Nini didn’t exactly combine very nicely, and no other boyfriend I’ve had was serious enough to warrant putting our names together. But Ricky and Nini combine neatly, and I kind of like the sound of Rini after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Tanner drops off the entrees, Ash asks for a second bottle of wine. I shoot her a look of surprise, but she shrugs it off. “Why not live a little?” she says. “We’re in walking distance of the hotel anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another glass of wine in and they’ve managed to coax countless stories about Ricky out of me. Our bowling date (Ricky flailed awkwardly every time he released the ball, but somehow he still managed to beat me), our trip to the carnival, and the one video that surfaced of the two of us </span>
  <em>
    <span>killing </span>
  </em>
  <span>it on Guitar Hero at Dave &amp; Buster’s. But by the time we’re halfway through dinner, I’ve successfully managed to deflect the attention away from mine and Ricky’s relationship and onto Ashlyn and Big Red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Ash says, blushing a deeper shade of red when I ask about the two of them. I shoot her a mischievous smile. One that says turnabout is fair play. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, wait. Since when have you and Big Red been a thing?” Gina asks, waving a sweet potato fry in the air to highlight her surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not!” Ash defends, and I feel a little bad for bringing it up. “We’ve, you know, been hanging out,” she shrugs, but her gentle smile tells a different story. “How did we even get on this topic?” she shakes her head. “Gina! You should be writing your number on a napkin for our waiter!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina raises her hands in surrender. “Nope. No way. This is a work trip. I’m keeping it strictly professional.” But one look around the table at all of us - wine-drunk and giggly - is enough to set us all laughing again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, fine,” Ashlyn says. “If you won’t leave your number for the waiter, at least tell us if there’s someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>who has your heart.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one,” Gina answers. I search her face for a sign that she’s kidding or being modest, but she suddenly seems very sober. Earnest, but not sad. “Right now, I’m just focusing on myself and I’m happy to keep it that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We leave it at that. For the rest of the meal, and over dessert, we talk about the upcoming school year. Ashlyn mentions she just bought a townhouse. She’s moving in August. By the time we spill out onto the street, red-faced and glassy-eyed, the sun has set. The lights are on in every building we walk past on the way back to the hotel. Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s the summer night, or maybe it’s something else altogether but I feel warm inside and out. We ride the elevator up to the fourth floor and pause outside mine and Gina’s door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for including me, guys,” Gina says. “This was...really nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime,” Ashlyn smiles. “Anyway, you two get a good night’s sleep. I’m gonna do my best to get some sleep, too,” she says, rolling her eyes in the direction of her own shut door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I frown. “Ash, why don’t you just come stay in our room? There’s a pullout. And I promise we aren’t snorers. Or sleeptalkers.” I turn to Gina, who nods in agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn hesitates, thinking it over. “I don’t wanna impose. Are you sure?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, c’mon! It’ll be like a sleepover,” Gina grins. “I’ve never had one of those before.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ashlyn and I gasp in unison. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Never</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I question, unable to hide my disbelief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never,” she shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, that’s a crime,” Ashlyn says. “And we’re rectifying it right now. Let me go get my stuff.” She disappears into her room, leaving us in the hall. Gina and I exchange glances, and after a moment we start giggling again.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Smiles Turn Into Crying (It's The Same Release)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We're coming up on the finale of this short little segue. Thank you for taking the journey with me so far! I'm happy to report that the full-length sequel is well into development and will (fingers crossed) be launching towards the end of this week. After taking into account all your feedback (and thank you so, so much everyone who's engaged and critiqued), it will be told in third-person. But anyway, enough about that. Let's continue! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’m the first to admit my childhood wasn’t typical. I mean, I have two moms. Typical sort of went out the door after that. But there are certain parts of my childhood that I thought were universal: flip phones, temporary tattoos, rubber bands shaped like animals that somehow became the must-have accessory in middle school. Up until now, I thought sleepovers belonged in that category, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s something special about staying up with your friends hours after your moms told you to go to bed. And it’s easier to get close to people when you’re all overtired and giddy, and you don’t have all the pressures of school around you, dictating the way you’re supposed to act. People are nicer at 3 AM. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that Gina never had a sleepover. It’s probably pretty tough when you spend so much time moving around. I can’t help but feel bad for her, even though I know she probably wouldn’t want me to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, girls, pick a movie.” Ashlyn’s sitting cross-legged on my bed, dressed in white-and-pink floral pajamas. She’s got Netflix open to the horror category. I hate horror movies. I’m a baby. Ricky made me watch </span>
  <em>
    <span>Halloween </span>
  </em>
  <span>with him once because “it’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>classic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Nini.” I spent the entire movie with my head buried in his chest. Come to think of it, maybe that was the point all along…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does it have to be a horror movie?” I ask. The wine is wearing off - I’m slightly buzzed at best - and I doubt my ability to make it through an entire horror film while sober. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re a sleepover staple, Nini,” Gina points out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Nini,” Ashlyn agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s become readily apparent to both Ashlyn and me that Gina’s idea of a sleepover is based almost entirely in movie tropes, and while my idea of sleepover is much more low-key (a bag of chips, a few facemasks), we’ve decided to indulge her and go all-out. For tonight, we can live out our teen movie fantasies as twenty-somethings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing too scary, please,” I peep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Insidious </span>
  </em>
  <span>it is,” Ashlyn decides, clicking on the title. I want to point out that that’s the opposite of ‘nothing too scary,’ but I don’t want to be a killjoy. At the very least, the movie will be background noise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We settle onto the bed, clustered around the laptop. I make sure to sit behind Ashlyn and Gina, so I can duck behind them and shield myself from the screen if it gets too scary.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>We’re only a few minutes into the movie before I decide that I’m not going to make it without a distraction. “We should play a game,” I say. For a moment, it feels like I’m ten again. Back when Kourtney and I would stay up late playing MASH and pretending it would accurately predict our futures. She was going to marry Taylor Lautner. I was going to marry Zac Efron. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What game?” Gina asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I wrack my brain. Nothing too childish. Something more befitting three adults in their twenties. “Truth or dare?” I regret it the second it falls from my mouth, but I can already tell Gina and Ashlyn have latched onto the idea. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m down,” Gina says. There’s something suspicious about the glint in her eyes. Something that reminds me a little of the Gina from last fall. I try to shake it off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” Ashlyn shrugs gamely. “Who wants to go first?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll go,” Gina volunteers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I seize on the opportunity. “Alright, Gina. Truth or dare?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Truth,” she says, a little too quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I narrow my eyes suspiciously. I want to interrogate her on what she’s planning right now. I want to ask her to tell me everything about her attempts to sabotage the musical. I want answers. But I know it would be unfair of me. She’s done a lot to prove that she’s grown, and the more time I spend with her, the fewer reasons I find to suspect her. Besides, I don’t want to embarrass her in front of Ashlyn. I realize that they’re both waiting expectantly and I can’t think of anything to ask, so I finally blurt, “Is Gina Porter your real name?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn giggles and I join her until Gina, with a sober look, says, “No.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We both stop and stare at her. “Wait, seriously?” Ash questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina nods solemnly. “Gina Porter is not my real name.” She pauses, then adds with a smile, “Gina </span>
  <em>
    <span>Louise </span>
  </em>
  <span>Porter is my real name.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I roll my eyes and smirk at her. “Fine, you got us. You go.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, Nini,” Gina says, cocking her head to one side. The look sets me on edge again. “Truth or dare?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I want to say dare. All my life, every single time I’ve ever played this game, I’ve always chosen truth. Kourtney used to get so mad at me when we were kids because she would have the perfect dares planned for me, but would never get the chance to use them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Truth,” I say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Coward</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. Is it true you were the back of a cow in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gypsy</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks already. Besides me and Kourtney, there are only two people that know about the most embarrassing role I ever played in a show: Ricky and EJ. I have a pretty good guess who Gina heard it from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina’s features soften when she notices the look on my face. “Wait, you don’t have to answer that if -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s true,” I confess, and even though my nonchalance is forced, I’m almost convinced it’s not a big deal. Especially after neither Gina nor Ashlyn bursts out laughing like I expect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Freshman year, I played a tree in </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Wizard of Oz</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And not even a tree that talks or dances. I just stood there,” Gina shares. “We’ve all had some pretty crappy parts.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s true,” Ashlyn confirms. “When I first started doing the Renaissance Faire, I was a peasant. My whole job was just hauling a bucket of water back and forth and pretending to clean the latrines. It was so humiliating.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I offer them both a wan smile. They have a point. And there are far worse parts than the back half of a cow, a tree, or a latrine-cleaning serf. Maybe it’s not as humiliating as I made it out to be all these years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Someone else go,” I insist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ashlyn, you’re up,” Gina turns to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dare me,” she responds confidently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I have the perfect dare. “Okay, I dare you to type a text to Big Red with your elbows,” I say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn laughs. “With my elbows?” She pulls out her phone. “What do I say?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina and I exchange glances, and then a slow smile spreads across Gina’s face. “Tell him, ‘Behold! Tis I, your mighty queen.’” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn makes a face and shakes her head. “Alright…” She brings her phone up to her elbow and we watch to make sure she doesn’t backspace. She somehow manages to type the phrase almost completely accurately, exclamation point and all. Her phone autocorrects “mifhty” to mighty, but we decide to let it stand. She hits send. “Done. Back to you, Nini.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re both looking at me intently and for a moment, I’m tempted to ask for another truth. And then, before I can fully process what I’m saying, “Dare,” falls from my lips and I can’t take it back. For a moment, I sit there basking in it. Kourtney would be so proud of me. My first dare!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn opens her mouth to say something, but she’s interrupted by her phone vibrating and for a moment, we forget the game altogether because there’s a text from Big Red. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s it say?” I ask, leaning over as she taps into her messages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your humble squire is ready to serve.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina and I let out a squeal of laughter as Ashlyn’s face turns bright red. She locks her phone and shakes her head good-naturedly. I sort of love everything about Big Red’s response. It’s dorky and sweet and quintessentially him. Quintessentially <em>both</em> of them, really.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Anyway</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Ash says pointedly, but the smile hasn’t left her face. “I was going to give you a dare, Nini, but I forgot it now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina leans over and whispers something in her ear. I watch Ash’s eyes widen, and then she snickers. “Yes! Okay, Nini. Your dare is to call Ricky from a blocked number and pull the ‘Is your refrigerator running’ prank.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I roll my eyes and laugh. “Really, guys? What are we? Twelve?” Inwardly, I’m relieved. Not that I think Ash or Gina would actually dare me to do something embarrassing or dangerous, but this is mild all things considered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pull out my phone and type *67, then dial Ricky’s number without double-checking the contacts first. There are a few numbers in the world that I have committed to memory: my moms’, Lola’s, Kourtney’s, EJ’s, and now Ricky’s, too. The call rings out twice. Three times. It occurs to me that I don’t know whether or not Ricky screens his calls. What if he doesn’t answer for a blocked number? What if he’s asleep? It’s almost eleven in Utah.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?” Ricky doesn’t sound like himself when he picks up on the fifth ring. He’s using his phone voice: just a little bit higher than his normal speaking voice. More polite-sounding and agreeable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ashlyn and Gina look at me, holding back their laughter. I clear my throat, and then, in the gruffest voice I can manage, ask, “Is your refrigerator running?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seriously?” Ricky answers flatly, and I hang up before he can continue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ash and Gina collapse into a fit of laughter on the bed, and I’m about to join them when my phone starts ringing again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ricky Bowen wants to FaceTime</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I accept, and a second later my boyfriend is taking up the entire screen. I can tell he’s in the living room of his apartment, but his mussed hair tells me he fell asleep on the couch. He’s smirking at me lopsided, the dimple in his left cheek visible. It’s the same cocky look he gets when he knows he’s going to beat me at something, or on the rare occasion when he’s right and I’m wrong. It’s a look that makes me want to smack and kiss him in equal measure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very funny, Nini,” he says, but there’s no harshness in his voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” I ask, playing dumb. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is your refrigerator running?” He does his best to mimic the voice I put on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, okay, you caught us,” I confess, though it’s hardly a confession when he knew all along. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Us?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turn the phone so that he can see Ashlyn and Gina sitting on the bed. Ash waves at him, smiling widely. “Hi, Ricky!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, guys…” his voice trails off and I can tell he’s staring a little too hard at Gina, trying to figure out what she’s doing hanging out with us. “What is this, a sleepover?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something like that,” I say, turning the phone back to me. “Ashlyn’s roommate is a chronic snorer.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ricky snorts and looks off-camera in the direction of Big Red’s room. “I feel her pain.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, so she’s hanging out in our room for the night.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you guys decided to prank call me?” he questions, arching a brow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s truth or dare, babe,” I defend myself. “I can’t refuse a dare.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fair enough,” Ricky chuckles, as if it’s not at all ridiculous that his ostensibly-an-adult girlfriend is playing truth or dare and prank calling him. “I’ll let you guys get back to your sleepover, then. Have fun!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I want to keep him on the phone a little longer. I want to keep seeing him smile at me like that. But I’m also acutely aware of the fact that Ashlyn and Gina are watching the two of us with doe eyes, so I decide to end the call. “Good night, babe.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good night,” Ricky says. There’s a moment of hesitation and my mind is screaming at me again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just say it! Just say it! Say “I love you!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I swear Ricky’s thinking the same thing. But this isn’t the place, nor the time. I won’t tell Ricky I love him for the first time while I’m miles away and an hour behind. He deserves to hear it in person, and I want to see his face in real time when I tell him. Besides, I’m not alone right now and there’s no way I’m going to make a confession like that in front of anyone else. So I just smile at Ricky and he smiles back, and then I push the button to end the call.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, Gina, truth or dare,” I say, pointedly ignoring the fawning looks on their faces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She opens her mouth to say something, then clearly thinks better of it. “Truth,” she shrugs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pause. There’s a million and one things I could ask, but I finally settle for, “Of all the places you lived growing up, what was your favorite?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina sighs wistfully. “If I had to pick? Arizona, I guess. It’s where I was born, you know? It’s the closest thing I had to a hometown growing up.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not the answer I expected. I would have guessed Argentina or Indonesia or Puerto Rico. Someplace far-flung and exotic. And I never would have pegged Gina for a sentimentalist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We go on with the game for some time, the movie all-but-forgotten in the background, but by 1:30, Ashlyn’s yawning and I’m starting to have trouble keeping my eyes open. “I don’t know about you guys,” Ash says, “but I’m ready for bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod in agreement. Gina helps her set up the pull-out while I brush my teeth, and by the time I emerge from the bathroom Ashlyn is passed out on top of the covers. I crawl into bed and go to turn off the lamp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Nini?” Gina asks. I pause, my arm outstretched, finger on the lamp switch, and wait for her to continue. “Thanks for this,” she says. “All these years… I never really knew what I was missing.” Her smile is tight and for a moment, it looks like she might cry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” I reply. “We should do it again sometime.” The strangest part is that I mean it. I flick the light switch and we’re plunged into darkness. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>A half hour later, I’m still awake and I can hear Gina shifting around across the room. It takes more than a day to adjust to a new place, I guess. I roll onto my side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still can’t sleep?” Gina whispers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope,” I reply at normal volume. Ashlyn’s dead asleep, of that I’m certain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That makes two of us,” Gina replies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence between us stretches on before I finally work up the nerve to ask the question that’s been on my mind since last fall. “Psst! Gina,” I hiss. Some part of me is wondering, or maybe hoping, that she’s fallen asleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Up for one more truth?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina lets out a noise - a chuckle that’s really more of an exhale than anything else. “Sure,” she says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I take a deep breath. For months I’ve been telling myself that I don’t need answers to get closure, that Gina and I are comfortable where we’re at. I’ve been telling myself that I’m okay with walking on eggshells all day at work, always ready to turn and go the other way if I see her coming towards me. But I know I’ve been lying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” I say. “Why did you try to sabotage the musical last fall? And I want the whole truth.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hear Gina’s breath hitch and for a moment, I wonder if she’ll pretend to be asleep. I would. Or maybe she’ll ignore the question altogether, or come back at me for bringing up old grievances. But she doesn’t do any of that. Instead, she just sighs and says, “I was wondering when it would come up.” There’s no resentment in her tone, just resignation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you probably won’t understand, but everything I’m about to tell you is the truth, Nini.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I gulp. For some reason, my heart starts to beat a little faster. “Okay…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing’s ever been permanent for me,” Gina says. “I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now from all the moving around I did as a kid. Every time I had to start over at a new school, they’d ask me where I was from and I wouldn’t know how to answer because I wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>from </span>
  </em>
  <span>anywhere. I was always just </span>
  <em>
    <span>going </span>
  </em>
  <span>somewhere. So after I graduated from college, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what permanence felt like. Hell, signing the paperwork when I bought my car felt like a lifetime commitment. My mom gave me a choice: come live with her, knowing I would have to uproot and move when she moved, or pick a place to settle on my own. It wasn’t a hard choice.” “</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You picked Salt Lake City,” I put in for her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. So I signed the lease on my apartment and started job hunting, and when I saw East High for the first time, I fell in love. It was so big and modern and just…everything that I wanted my high school to be. When Principal Gutierrez called me in for an interview, he told me that the robotics club and the scholastic decathlon team were looking for new advisors. Enrollment was down and he was worried he might have to cancel them altogether if he couldn’t find someone. I wanted the job so badly, I told him I would take on both if he hired me. I don’t know if that’s what sealed the deal for him -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I interrupt. “I’m sure he was going to hire you anyway.” From everything I’ve heard and seen, Gina is an excellent teacher. She knows her stuff. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In any case,” she continues, “I got both clubs when I was hired. I thought I could do it. But then the board cut funding for extracurriculars and the interest meeting turnout was low. I got scared. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to deliver on my promise, and I was nervous I was going to lose funding. And if that happened, I was worried that…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You would get fired?” I fill in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Gina says. Her voice sounds constricted, as if the words are strangling her as she speaks. “But it wasn’t just that I would get fired. I was scared that if I was fired, I would have to leave. I had </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>gotten used to calling Salt Lake City my home. It was the first home I’d ever chosen for myself. And I was terrified, Nini.” I hear her shudder, and I don’t need to turn on the lamp to know she’s crying. As if to confirm it, she sniffles and then I feel the tears pressing at the backs of my eyes, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I was still in high school, I swore to myself that when I found a home, I would never leave it. I was so scared that I was going to have to leave Salt Lake City before I even had a chance to put down roots. I know it probably doesn’t seem that logical to you, but it felt like I was going to be doomed to the life of a nomad. So when I saw you and Ricky doing so well with the musical, I thought maybe you could afford to lose some members. I thought maybe I could get my numbers up just enough without it affecting you guys. But it didn’t exactly work out like I planned. It really wasn’t ever meant to be personal, Nini. I never had anything against you or Ricky. My fear brought out the worst in me. I know it was wrong. I let it go much further than I meant for it to. And since then, I’ve realized that I would rather sacrifice my home than my values. I said I was sorry then, and I’m even sorrier now. I really am.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m the worst when it comes to watching - or hearing - other people cry. No matter who it is, the second the waterworks start, I inevitably start crying too. Kourtney hates it because it makes her cry harder when I cry too. And if Ricky starts crying, I swear I could fill a whole new Salt Lake with my own tears. I listen to the sound of Gina’s heaving breaths as she sobs into her pillow, and the tears immediately start streaming down my face, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hit the lamp switch and the space between us is lit up in soft, yellow light. Gina peers up at me, her eyes puffy and her upper lip slick and shiny from her running nose. I’m sure I don’t look any better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, too,” I tell her. I’m not sorry for being angry at her. How could I not have been angry at her for what she did? But I understand now. For so long, I was somehow convinced she had a vendetta against me. In truth, it was never really about me at all. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for the circumstances that led Gina to do what she did. I’m sorry that she was forced to move around so much as a kid. Most of all, I’m sorry that I didn’t find this out until now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We fall asleep with the light still on. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. You Walk Beside Me (Not Behind Me)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And here it is! The final chapter of this little interlude that bridges us to the full-length sequel. And I hope you'll be excited to know that I am ALSO posting the prologue to that story TONIGHT! So after you're done reading here, I hope you'll hop on over there to give it a look. I'm so, so excited to share this with you. It's been a labor of love. Thank you for all your sincere feedback, kind words, and thoughtful critiques. Each and every one of you makes me a stronger writer. I would love to hear your final thoughts on this story as I move onto the next, and I look forward to sharing that journey with you as well.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>We all oversleep our alarms the next morning. I guess it’s really no surprise given how little we’ve slept. And after last night’s heart-to-heart with Gina, I feel even more exhausted than I thought I would. Ashlyn scrambles to get her things together and promises to meet us downstairs after she grabs a quick shower. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m sure I look like hell. I can feel the tightness in my face from the dried tears - at some point I couldn’t be bothered to grab more tissues - and I’m certain my eyes are puffy. Gina isn’t any better shape. Her eyes are swollen and tinged with red. I let her have the shower first again. She probably needs it more than I do. When she finishes, I just have enough time to splash cold water on my face and run a brush through my hair before heading downstairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breakfast is winding down, and the already-unappealing offerings are somehow even less appealing now. The eggs have congealed into a solid mass, with servings carved out of it like a grotesque casserole. I snag a hard, branny-looking muffin and sit down across from Ash and Gina. Ashlyn is poring over the schedule for the day. There’s only time for one session, since most of us are catching flights later this afternoon, and we’ve been presented with options of what we’d like to attend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a presentation for social studies and history teachers,” she tells us. “I think I’m gonna go to that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I consider going, too. It’s not my subject area, but I’d rather go to a session with someone I know than be alone. I lean over to take a look at Ashlyn’s phone screen at the same time that Gina does, and we bump heads. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We apologize simultaneously and Gina rubs her forehead sheepishly. I scan the list of options, but admittedly none of them seem targeted towards me. “Remote Learning for the Modern Age,” “Songs in Our Key: The Importance of Music Education in the 21st Century,” “Putting 2 and 2 Together: Getting Kids Excited About Algebra.” My eyes settle on the last offering: “Your Teaching Journey.” The description promises “an illuminating look at who you’ve been, who you are, and where you’re going inside and outside the classroom.” When I look up, I see Gina reading the same title.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you gonna go?” I ask.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks over at me and nods slowly. “I think so.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When we finish breakfast, we leave the sticky formica table behind and make our way to the reception hall for our last day. Each of the conference rooms is labeled with the name of a different session. Gina and I line up amid a few others - mostly middle-aged women in cardigan sweaters despite the eighty degree heat outside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I look up and momentarily make eye contact with Gina, then avert my gaze again. Something’s different. I can feel it, but I can’t quite describe it. She’s always triggered my fight-or-flight, and I’ve always been more flight than fight. But that feeling of tension that came about when I first spotted her in the airport is gone. I legitimately don’t mind standing in line with her. In fact, I’m sort of glad that she’s here. If somebody had told me at the start of this trip that I would prefer being with Gina to being alone, I wouldn’t have believed it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To my surprise, the same blonde, pixie-cut presenter from yesterday is leading our workshop. She greets us warmly, blue eyes twinkling, and this time I take a seat in the front row. Gina drops down in the one beside me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning, everyone. For those that didn’t attend my session yesterday, I’m Andrea Blake and today I’m here to talk to you about your teaching journey. We’re going to take a look into your background, who you are, and who you want to be when you leave here today. So I hope you came prepared to be vulnerable.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t help but let out a laugh at this. I didn’t come to this conference prepared to be vulnerable, and yet vulnerability seems to have been the theme all along. Gina turns to me in surprise at my little chuckle and I shrug at her in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“First, I’d like to spend some time considering who we were when we decided to become teachers. I want you to think about what led you to this career. Who influenced you? What alternatives, if any, did you consider? And why did you ultimately decide that this was the calling for you? Now, the name of this presentation is ‘Your Teaching Journey.’ And I think it’s important that we remember we never journey alone. So I’d like you to pair up with someone else in the room for this first part.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not even a question. Gina and I lock eyes, and I angle my seat toward her as Dr. Andrea Blake urges us to share our “teacher origin story” with each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You go first,” I urge, mostly because I don’t know what to say. For so many people I’ve met - Ricky included - the path to teaching was long and straight. Mine was a bit twistier, and I don’t know how much to reveal to Gina. Should I even reveal any of it at all? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina exhales - not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I mean, you already know most of it,” she says. “I moved around a lot as a kid. Sometimes several times in a year, so I wouldn’t get to finish the school year in the same place I started. I’m sure you can imagine how tough that is for a kid.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod. I can. I never moved, but we had plenty of transfer students in my classes over the years. If there’s one thing high school taught me, it’s that the world is a particularly vicious place for transfer students. The ones that came in with a chip on their shoulder and a dog-eat-dog attitude stood a chance of making it. The soft ones? The ones who were polite and meek and stood aside when someone bigger or older came down the hall? They were chewed up and spit out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes, we’d get to a new place and I wouldn’t be able to make friends. Everyone already had their friends, and they didn’t really want or need a new one. Maybe my heart wasn’t in it because I knew we wouldn’t be there long, but it was still a lonely time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You had all your hobbies to keep you company,” I put in with a forced, just-a-little-too-chipper smile. It’s a dumb thing to say. I know it the second the words leave my mouth, but I can sense that Gina’s steadily getting closer to crying again. She seems to brighten a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s true,” she concedes. “But there’s only so much dancing and cooking and macrame and origami a girl can do before she’s tired of being by herself. But anyway, what I was trying to say is that anytime I found myself in a new place without new friends, there was always a teacher that was there for me. Usually an English teacher, actually,” she smiles at me, “but sometimes math or science. One time it was my health teacher. They always had a way of knowing just what to say and just when to say it. And I always felt a little better after they went out of their way to talk to me or encourage me.” She shakes her head. “It sounds pretty dumb and cliche, but I guess I decided to go into teaching because I want to be that teacher. I want to be the one who helps another kid like me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s dumb or cliche,” I reassure her. “I think it’s noble.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well I’ve done a great job of living up to that ideal so far, haven’t I?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe not yet, but you’ve still got time,” I offer. “It’s never too late.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess not,” she nods. We fall silent for a moment. I drop my gaze to the beige carpet and notice for the first time that it’s flecked with black specks. I study the pattern for a moment until it all starts to blur in my vision. When I pick my eyes up again, Gina’s watching me expectantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you?” she prods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I force a laugh. I still have no idea what to say. In truth, I don’t even fully know what led me down this path and I tell her as much, but she just shrugs and encourages me to tell her whatever comes to mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” I start. “Well, for starters, I didn’t originally plan on being a teacher.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Psychology, right?” Gina fills in, and I’m surprised she remembered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I nod. “My grandma was a psychologist before she retired, and I always wanted to be just like her. Follow in her footsteps. I had this dream that I would one day buy the building where her office used to be and reopen it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you?” Gina asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shrug. “Well for starters, it’s twelve years of school at least. But I think the biggest thing that put me off was that my grandma always had the right answers. It didn’t matter what question you asked or what problem you had, she always somehow had the perfect advice or the perfect story, or she’d ask the perfect question to lead you to the answer. And I know that’s not really what a psychologist does, but it felt like a necessary part of the job if I was going to follow in her footsteps.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you chose teaching, where everyone literally expects you to have all the answers all the time?” Gina questions. There’s a hint of humor in her confused tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I laugh. “Seems contradictory, doesn’t it? I guess I was just scared that I would never live up to my grandma’s reputation, so I decided to do something else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So why teaching? And why English specifically?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually, my reasons aren’t that different from yours. I wasn’t exactly very outgoing in school. I had Kourtney and a few other friends, but that was it. It wasn’t like I wanted to be that way, but I was always too shy or too nervous to talk to people, you know? I didn’t know what they’d think of me or what they’d say, so I kept to myself. But then high school came and suddenly there were a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot </span>
  </em>
  <span>more people. I was so scared. I barely knew anyone in my classes, so I became even  more reserved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then freshman year, my English teacher encouraged me to try out for the musical. She thought I’d enjoy it. And you know what? I did. It was hard for me to be myself, but it was easy for me to pretend to be someone else. But outside of rehearsal, I started hanging out with people and getting to know them. And that’s when I started making friends and enjoying high school. It’s also dumb, and probably also cliche, but she helped me find my voice. So when I decided to move on from psychology, I looked for another field that would let me help people and teaching was naturally the next option.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gina is pensive for a moment, her eyes falling somewhere between me and the table. I can see the wheels turning in her head, but I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. Is she judging? Finally, she smiles at me and says, “I think that’s sweet. And admirable.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I return her smile, and it doesn’t feel forced this time. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>“Well that was something,” Gina says once we’re back in the room. The rest of the session felt like a blur, and the conclusion was definitely rushed to make sure everyone could get out in time to make their flights home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I murmur. The room is warm. We’ve been trying to find a way to shut the A/C off during this whole trip and now, when we’re packing to leave, it’s somehow shut itself off. The window is to my back, painting my shadow across the bed as I fold my dirty clothes loosely and stuff them into my suitcase. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We carry on in silence for a while, the gentle </span>
  <em>
    <span>zip </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>unzip </span>
  </em>
  <span>of our suitcases the only sound in the room. Finally, Gina looks across the room at me. “I’m just gonna say it,” she begins, and I put down the blouse in my hands. “I’ve never been sorrier for what I did than right now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gina,” I sigh. “I don’t need you to turn this into a marathon of regret.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that she apologized. I’m happy she </span>
  <em>
    <span>keeps </span>
  </em>
  <span>apologizing because each time she says it, I’m one step closer to believing she means it. But I also know it’s unfair to demand that she continue to atone for the same mistake over and over. I can’t keep her in purgatory forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just hear me out,” Gina implores. “Please?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod and she continues. “I’ve never been sorrier than I am right now because after these past few days - and that last session especially - I’m realizing more and more how we’re really not that different. The stuff you told me about… I related </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much </span>
  </em>
  <span>to it, Nini. You don’t even know. And it’s made me realize that I was hurting someone just like me. I know now that I missed out on a really great friend. I’m so used to being the teacher and figuring it out for myself, but I think you could have taught me a lot. In a way, you already have. So… yeah. That’s what I wanted to tell you. And after today, if you never want to speak to me again, I respect that. But I just thought you should know.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room feels charged. The ball is firmly in my court, and I’m not used to that when it comes to Gina. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought the same: that in the end, we’re two sides of the same coin - products of our circumstances. The only difference is that her fear drove her to action, and mine kept me paralyzed. Were I in her shoes, maybe I would have turned out the same. And it’s then that I realize that not only am I not angry anymore, I’m ready to forgive her. Maybe I already have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gina,” I clear my throat. She’s been staring down at her suitcase, toying with the zipper, but she looks up when I call her. I’ve never seen her look this timid. “I’ve learned a lot from this trip, too. I’ve gotten to know you, and I’ve learned that it’s impossible to hate someone once you get to know them. I don’t know if we’ll ever be friends, but I’m willing to give it a try. So I guess - no, I know - this means that I also forgive you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room, and then the air conditioning kicks back on and Gina’s face is split into a smile of relief. “Really?” she whispers, barely audible over the sound of the A/C whooshing to fill the room with cold air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod. And then, to prove it, I cross the room and open my arms. It’s strange and awkward. She goes up at the same time I do, and when I try to go down instead, she does the same. When we finally manage a hug, it’s a little too stiff to be natural. But maybe with some time, it could work. I leave a ten dollar bill on the nightstand, grab hold of my suitcase, and follow Gina out the door, taking one last glance back at the hotel room. As the elevator descends to the lobby, I feel so much lighter. It feels like I won’t even need a plane to take me back to Salt Lake City. I could float there on my own. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Ricky is waiting for me right outside the arrivals hall when I land. He’s standing there with a bouquet of riotously bright flowers - orange and fuchsia and purple - and a big poster board that says WELCOME HOME NINI in messy bubble letters that run down the side where he ran out of room. I can’t help but laugh at the spectacle as I run to meet him, throwing myself in his arms. I don’t even care that I’m probably crushing the flowers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was only three days,” I giggle against him as he rocks me back and forth in the middle of the terminal. He’s ridiculous. I love how ridiculous he is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Longest three days of my life,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Welcome home, babe.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He trades me the flowers for my suitcase and walks me out to his car. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed the way my hand feels in his, the way the calluses on his fingers brush my knuckles. I’ve missed his messy hair and the way his eyes light up just a little bit anytime they fall on me. I’ve missed the scent of his aftershave and the new smell of his car. I haven’t even buckled myself in when his gaze slides over to me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, so I gotta ask… You and Gina rooming together? And you’re both still alive?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shoot him a smirk as I click the seatbelt into place. “It worked out better than any of us expected, actually,” I assure him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts the car into gear and backs out of the space. “What do you mean?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So I tell him, and even though he keeps his eyes on the road, the disbelief on his face is unmissable. I tell him about running into her at the airport, the unbearable Uber ride to the hotel. I tell him about the first night, and all the sessions, and our drunken dinner excursion, and by the time I get to the sleepover, the disbelief has morphed into shock. I end with our final session and what was said in the hotel room while we packed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I finish, Ricky is silent for a while. His eyes are wide, his mouth frozen in a half-smile. “I mean, it’s great that you guys came to an understanding,” he finally manages. “I guess I just can’t picture you and Gina being friends. How’d that happen?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shrug. The sun is going down and the streetlights have just come on. I turn towards Ricky and take in the sight of him in profile, lit up orange by the sunset filtering in through the windshield. And I know, in that moment, that I made the right choice. The universe gave me an opportunity with Ricky, and I took it. It’s been the best opportunity I ever took. Now the universe is giving me a chance at forgiveness and friendship with Gina. I’d be a fool not to take that, too. “Empathy,” I finally answer Ricky’s question. It’s the only answer I can give. </span>
</p>
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